Deep Down True (19 page)

Alder and Jet were sprawled on the couch in the TV room, heads resting on opposite ends, feet fighting playfully for position in the middle. Dana interrupted a snickering disagreement over which horror film was the stupidest when she popped her head in to say she was leaving. “The number for the Kinnears is on the pad in the kitchen, and you know my cell number.”

“Have fun,” said Alder, reaching over to yank the clicker out of Jet’s hand.

“Yeah,” Jet giggled and heaved a pillow at Alder. “Have a boat-load of it.”

 

 

The McPhersons lived in the opposite direction from the Kinnears, in a little neighborhood where the houses were smaller and seemed to elbow one another for every inch of yard space. As much as she’d enjoyed seeing Mrs. McPherson and her daughter in the grocery store, Dana hoped no one would answer the door so she could make a quick drop.

The beef stew had leaked out of the pan and smeared her fingers when she picked it up. She hung the bag of side dishes from her wrist and carried the stew with her fingertips, rang the doorbell with her elbow, and silently counted to ten. She would leave the meal in the Comfort Food cooler on the front step if she finished before anyone answered.
One . . . two . . .

The knob began to twist back and forth, and then there was a thumping sound. The person on the other side was knocking, as if he or she were the one trying to get in. “Mama!” called a thin little voice. “Ma-maaaa! Da door’s locked!” The door began to shudder as the knob was rhythmically yanked from the other side.

Someone called from farther away, the words getting clearer as they approached. “. . . a minute! I can only do sixteen things at once.” The door opened, and Mrs. McPherson was behind it, swinging a chubby toddler onto her hip.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” said Dana.

“No! Please, it’s fine. It’s so nice of you to come at all.” Mrs. McPherson gave a shy smile and opened the screen door. She looked calmer than the other times Dana had seen her. Her eyes crinkled pleasantly; she seemed almost hopeful. “We always love Mrs. Stellgarten’s meals, don’t we, Monkey Man?” she said to the toddler, giving him a squeeze that made him giggle.

“Please—call me Dana.”

“Well, Dana, I have to admit you’re our favorite,” she said over her shoulder as she led the way into the kitchen. “Not that we don’t appreciate every meal people bring, of course.” She plopped the little boy onto the tan Formica counter, mottled with faint stains. “But yours get the most points around this house, that’s for sure.”

Dana set down the stew on the kitchen table between the Magic Markers and scattered pieces of construction paper. “That’s a lot more than I get from my own family,” she said with a sigh.

“Naturally.” Mrs. McPherson gave a sardonic grin, hip against the counter, her body a barricade to keep the little boy from falling.

Dana smiled back. “I don’t know your first name,” she said.

“Mary Ellen.”

Dana held out her upturned hands, sticky with stew, and said, “Could I . . . ?” Mary Ellen turned on the water in the sink, adjusting it to warm. “How is he?” Dana murmured, rinsing her hands, wondering where in the house Mr. McPherson was.

The little boy squirmed against his mother, she swung him down off the counter, and he ran out of the kitchen. “Better,” she said, handing Dana a dish towel. “They said he wouldn’t be, but I didn’t believe it. I told him he had to keep fighting, and it’s finally paying off.”

Dana wondered at this—the volunteer coordinator at Comfort Food had said Mr. McPherson was terminal. Was Mary Ellen right? Or was she in denial? Dana shuddered at the thought of how hard it would hit if the latter were true. “Is there anything else you need? Food shopping? Errands?”

Mary Ellen smiled gratefully. “That’s so generous, but we just need to get through this so things can get back to normal. Please just keep bringing those yummy dinners. We always love it when it’s Mrs. Stellgarten’s night.”

 

 

The Kinnears lived down one of those meandering side roads where even the smaller houses sat on enormous lots. As it turned out, it hadn’t been necessary to squint at the numbers on the mailboxes to gauge how much farther to go. The Kinnear house was at the end, its driveway veering sharply off the cul-de-sac as if to snub its nose at the houses tethered closer to the street.

Dana parked behind a red Hummer and had half a thought to go home and change into nicer clothes. But she took a breath and walked up the driveway, clutching her little purse and a rather expensive bottle of cabernet, the label adorned with a print of the French countryside.

The house was smaller than she expected, given the length of the driveway. But it was well lit, carefully landscaped, and seemed to radiate a strange, almost visible heat through the large bay window. The silvery hum of jazz music beckoned her into the house.

Standing on the front porch, Dana wondered whether to ring the doorbell. The dark-paneled door was not quite closed. Was this a tacit invitation to push it open, or had someone neglected to shut it all the way? Dana rang the bell. She waited several minutes before someone came.

“It’s open!” a man called as he yanked open the door. “Everyone knows to just come the hell in . . .” He was tall, well over six feet, and had short black hair that glittered silver here and there. His pink oxford shirt was rolled at the cuffs and open at the neck, though it bore the telltale wrinkles of having been recently constrained by a tie. The shirt was tucked into faded, unbelted, perfectly fitting jeans. “Friend of Nora’s?” he speculated, hanging a hand over the top of the door. “Or are you lost in the woods, little girl?”

The cocky smile, the languid stance, his weight balanced on one leg while the other rested loosely—it was completely familiar to Dana. It was what some men did, particularly good-looking men, when they wanted to flirt a little, to establish themselves as the lead dog whose pack you might be invited to join. Dana handled the situation as she knew she was required to, by flirting mildly but by no means indicating a rejection of such an offer, if it were to be made. “Just on my way to grandmother’s house.” She smiled, holding up the bottle of wine. “Grandma likes a nice glass of red in the evening.”

A sly, appreciative grin. He stepped out of the doorway finally and beckoned her in. “We’ll text Granny and tell her not to wait up.”

Dana introduced herself. “Our daughters are friends,” she added, offering her hand to shake.

He accepted it and held it for an extra second. “Darby’s mom?”

“No, Morgan’s.”

“Oh . . . Right! Morgan.” It was clear he didn’t know Morgan, but Dana took no offense. The fathers rarely kept up with their kids’ rapidly rotating social worlds. “I’m Carter.” He guided her down a pomegranate-red hallway hung with small charcoal sketches in enormous black frames, toward the jazz music and the loud hum of voices in the thrall of human contact.

Carter Kinnear made sure her hand was wrapped safely around the stem of a wineglass before releasing her into the uncharted waters of the party. Dana glanced around, noting a vaguely familiar face or two.

“Dana?” said a voice behind her.

Dana turned and reached out for a hug. “I am
so
glad to see you,” she murmured into Polly’s ear. “I barely know anyone!”

“I didn’t realize you and Nora had hit it off so fast,” said Polly, her grip a little looser than usual. “You should have told me.” Then, as an afterthought, “You could’ve come with us.”

“‘Us’? Victor’s here, too?”

Polly gave an eye roll. “Sniffing around the hostess with the mostess.” Dana followed her gaze across the room. Victor was leaning against a granite countertop as Nora Kinnear talked, her long fingers pointing to herself and then away and then back again. His eyes never left her face as he took a swig from his beer. Nora must have sensed Polly’s and Dana’s attention, because she glanced toward them and quickly extricated herself. Victor gave Dana a wave as Nora made her way over.

“I’m so glad you came!” she said, her hands lighting on Dana’s back as she leaned in for Dana to peck her on the cheek. “Polly always mentions you at book group, and I thought, ‘She sounds interesting, I’ll have to get to know her better.’”

Dana smiled, grateful for this gesture of acceptance. But as she glanced at Polly, something seemed slightly off. There was a tension behind Polly’s smile, a subtle uneasiness that surprised Dana. Nora chatted blithely about how well Morgan and Kimmi got along, how they must have eaten half the batter of the brownies they made, laughing so hard they dropped the bowl. Dana explained Morgan’s absence and apologized for the change in plans.

“Oh, Kimmi will understand. We’ve talked about how complicated it gets when parents split. Anyway, she has Devynne up there with her now, so she’s got nothing to mope about.” Her gaze skimming the room, Nora said suddenly, “Dana, you don’t know Beth Getman, do you? You’ve got to meet her. You two have so much in common.” Steering Dana away, Nora said over her shoulder, “Pol, you don’t mind if I steal her for a minute, right?” Then they were weaving through the crowd, stopping for Nora to introduce Dana to various friends. They never did catch up to the elusive Beth Getman, and Dana didn’t talk to Polly again for the rest of the party.

Occasionally she saw her across the room, and it seemed to Dana as if Polly were watching her, or possibly watching Nora, who was always at her side, bestowing her with the gifts of new acquaintances. Why hadn’t Nora included Polly? Dana kept meaning to circle around to her, but the opportunity never presented itself.

Hours later, as she made her way back down the driveway, feeling as if she’d gotten a good grade on a test she hadn’t studied for, Dana gave her beaded clutch a little squeeze. She had made new friends—with people who didn’t know her as half of Kenneth-and-Dana, or even as his duped ex-wife. She had soloed, and though it didn’t feel quite as good as arriving on the arm of a man who loved her, it made her feel sharp and audacious and, oddly enough, just a little bit dangerous.

J
ACK GRIPPED HER HAND AND PRESSED FASTER down the sidewalk; her leather-soled mules slapped the cement, sending tremors into her ankles. Propelled toward Rentschler Field, she heard the aggregated buzz of forty thousand voices greeting friends, buying UConn sweatshirts, or excusing themselves as they made their way across the stands. Though she had graduated from UConn twenty-odd years earlier, it was Dana’s first time at “The Rent,” as Jack referred to it. In her day, football was played at Memorial Stadium, and she felt suddenly sentimental for her college days, which had seemed so full of drama at the time but were a cakewalk compared to her life now. Jack towed her along toward their seats, his enormous hand gripping hers, compressing her knuckles uncomfortably against one another. And yet she felt thrilled to be so explicitly claimed.
This one’s taken,
he seemed to say with that hand.
She’s with me.

Once they were seated, Jack slid closer to Dana, pressing her toward the aisle. “Cold?” he asked as he rubbed her back.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Wait till the game starts.” He grinned. “That’ll get your blood flowing.”

Her feelings toward football could hardly be called passionate, but what was the harm? Dana was used to adjusting her own opinions to make room for others’. She
wanted
to like what he liked, and that was almost as good as actually liking it.

From her seat on the aisle, she saw a man and a little boy climbing the stairs hand in hand. “This one?” the boy asked at every row. “Is this our seats?”

“No, buddy,” the man answered each time. “A little farther up.” Dana found herself studying the man’s face. He seemed familiar somehow. Suddenly he was staring back. “Dana!” he said.

“Oh, my God!” It was Billy, her college boyfriend. He looked older, of course, and weathered in ways she wouldn’t have expected. But he was clear-eyed, and she noticed a wedding ring glinting on his finger just before he leaned down to hug her.

“You’re a sight,” he murmured in her ear. The embrace went a fraction of a second too long.

“Jack Roburtin,” said a slightly peevish voice beside her. Jack’s huge hand came out in front of her, momentarily obscuring her view.

“Bill Waterman, nice to meet you.” He gave Jack’s hand a double pump and stepped back into the aisle, putting a respectable distance between himself and Dana.

“Bill and I were classmates,” Dana said quickly. “Where’d we meet? Freshman Spanish?”

“Yeah.” He aimed his response at Jack. “At like eight-thirty in the morning. I wasn’t
hablo
-ing too much español at that hour, if you know what I mean.”

“Or any other hour,” Dana teased.

“She got me through,” he told Jack. “I got a C-minus, but I passed.
That
class anyway.”

“Not much of a student, huh?” said Jack. His eyes wandered out onto the field, not waiting for the answer. His fingers slid onto Dana’s and wriggled into an embrace.

Billy’s gaze turned back to her. “No, not much.” As he studied her face, she had a brief memory of his hands in her hair, his lips grazing her eyebrows.

Embarrassed, she turned her attention to the boy. “You like football?” she said brightly.

“Yeah!” he said. “Well, I never seen a game before, but I think so. I got a helmet!”

“You do? You’re lucky—
my
son didn’t get a helmet until just this year, and he’s seven.”

“I’m four and three-quarters! And I’m getting a hot dog, but I don’t have to eat it all. And cotton candy!”

Billy rubbed the top of his little buzz cut, and the boy wrapped his arms around his father’s thigh. “Okay, Sean-o, we better get to our seats.” He took one last glance at Dana. “Great to see you,” he said.

“He’s beautiful,” she murmured.
Good for you,
she wanted to say. Billy steered the boy up the stairs.