Home Song (5 page)

In his office he snapped on the ceiling lights, laid Kent Arens's registration card on his desk, and dialed the athletic office.

The coach picked up and said, “Yuh. Gorman here.”

“Bob, it's Tom Gardner. What'd you think of the new kid?”

“Are you kidding?” Tom heard the twang of Gorman's desk chair as he tilted it back. “He makes me ask myself what I'm doing wrong with my own.”

“You questioned him?”

“Of course I questioned him. The kid's got his head on so straight I almost wanted to hear something foolish come out of his mouth just so I'd know he was for real.”

“Can he play?”

“Can he
play
?
Boy
, can he play!”

“So he's on the team?”

“Not only on it, I have the feeling he could be the spark that makes it happen for us this year. He knows how to follow orders, how to handle a ball and avoid tacklers. He's a real team man, plus he's in great shape. I'm glad you had the good sense to bring him down to talk to me.”

“Well, that's good news. A boy like that with college goals and plenty of gray matter between his ears, he's the kind that makes our whole school system look good. I'm glad you put him on the team. Thanks.”

“I'm glad you brought him down, Tom.”

After he'd hung up, Tom sat at his desk, wondering what would happen during this school year, what changes his life would undergo because of all he'd learned today.

He had another son. A smart, athletic, bright, polite,
seemingly happy seventeen-year-old son. What a discovery to make at mid-life.

The phone rang and he jumped guiltily, as if the caller could divine his thoughts.

It was Claire. “Hi, Tom. Coming home for supper?”

He forced brightness into his voice. “Yup. I'll head out now. Did you pick up Robby?”

“He caught a ride home with Jeff.” Jeff Morehouse was Robby's best friend and a fellow football player.

“Okay. I told him I wouldn't be around when practice ended but it turns out I had to stop back at school anyway. See you in a few minutes.”

On his way out of the office, Tom left Kent Arens's green registration card on Dora Mae's desk for filing.

 

Tom and Claire Gardner lived in the same two-story colonial they'd bought when the children were three and four. The trees had grown a lot since then, and when the senior class decided to TP them, the cleanup was horrendous. The yard looked nice today, however, still wearing its summer green, with Claire's impatiens blooming in the redwood tubs beside the front step.

Her car was in the garage, and the kids' junker—an ancient, rusted-out silver Chevy Nova—parked right behind it. Tom pulled into his customary stall on the left, got out, and skirted the rear of Claire's car on his way to the back door.

He put his hand on the knob, but delayed turning it and facing his family with all this new knowledge of which they had no idea.

He had an illegitimate son.

His children had a half brother.

Eighteen years ago his pregnant wife-to-be had been betrayed by her intended one week before the wedding.

What would happen to his happy family if they ever learned the truth?

He entered the family room and walked through it into the kitchen, where the homey scene suddenly clutched him with love—his wife and children in a room that smelled like supper cooking, waiting for him to join them and round out the family.

Chelsea was setting the table. Robby stood by the open refrigerator door eating a cold wiener, and Claire was at the stove filling buns with barbecued hamburger.

“Put on some pickles, too, will you, Chels? And Robby, stop eating those wieners! I've got supper all ready.” She glanced over her shoulder, smiled, and kept on working. “Oh, hi, Tom.”

He shuffled to a stop behind her, slid an arm around her ribs, and kissed her neck. It was warm and smelled like onions, Passion perfume, and schoolteacher. She paused, the spoon in one hand and a bun in the other, craning to see him behind her.

“My goodness,” she said quietly, giving him a private smile. “Twice in one day?”

He kissed her lingeringly on the mouth while Robby said, “What's that supposed to mean?”

Chelsea said, “I caught them mashing face in Mom's classroom this morning. And it wasn't just a mini-mashing either. He had her in a full-body press. And guess what—they're going away for the weekend and leaving Grandpa with us.”

“Grandpa!”

“Sit down, you two,” Claire ordered, escaping Tom's embrace, carrying a plate of steaming sandwiches to the table. “Your father suggested that maybe we should get away before school starts and things get crazy. You don't mind, do you?”

“Why can't we stay by ourselves?”

“Because we have a rule about that. Tom, would you get those carrots and celery sticks from the refrigerator?”

Tom found them and they all got seated at the table. Robby put three burgers on his plate before passing the platter to his sister.

“What a pig,” she said.

“Hey, listen, you didn't bust your butt on a football field all afternoon.”

“No, I did it over at Erin's house. We were practicing our cheerleading over there.”

“Big deal,” he said disparagingly.

“Whoa, aren't
we
in a surly mood.”

“Just lay off, huh? Maybe I've got a reason.”

“Oh, yeah—what reason?”

“Dad knows, don't you, Dad? Some new kid moves into town, doesn't even show up for football practice till
after
we've been through hell week, bustin' our butts in the eighty-degree heat, and he just saunters onto the field and says, ‘Yessir, nossir' to the coach a few times with this fakey Southern drawl, and the coach says, ‘You're on the team.” '

Tom and Claire exchanged quick glances before he asked, “Have you got trouble with that, Robby?”

“Well, jeez, Coach Gorman is letting him play running back!”

“Any reason he shouldn't?”

Robby stared at his father as if he couldn't believe his ears. Then he blurted, “Yeah,
Jeff plays running back
!”

Tom helped himself to a hamburger. “Then Jeff will just have to play better than Arens, right?”

“Aw, come on, Dad! Jeff's been here since he was in first grade!”

“Giving him the automatic right to play running back, even if somebody else might play it better?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Jeez, I don't believe this.”

“And I don't know what's gotten into you, Robby. You've always been a team man before. If the new guy is good, he makes you all look better, you know that.”

Robby quit chewing and stared at his father. The corners of his mouth were orange with barbecue sauce. Two spots of red appeared on his clean, shiny cheeks, which had just been showered at school. Chelsea's eyes swerved from her brother to her dad. She picked up her glass of milk, took a swallow, and asked, “Who is this new kid anyway?”

Tom laid down his sandwich and said, “His name is Kent Arens. He just transferred in from Austin, Texas.”

“Is he cute?” she asked.

Adrenaline rushed through Tom, lighting his face while he grappled for an honest answer. Claire, meanwhile, was sitting back and letting the whole conversation roll on without her, but observing carefully.

“Yeah, pretty cute,” Tom said, as if it had taken some forethought to reply.

In rampant disgust, Robby muttered, “Jeez,” and hid behind his glass of milk. Slamming his glass down, he said, “I hope you don't expect me to drag him around every place I go with my friends, Dad.”

“Not at all. I just expect you to be polite to him, treat him the way you'd want to be treated if you were the new kid in school.”

Robby wiped his mouth on a napkin, pushed his chair back, and got up with his dirty dishes. The set of his shoulders told the whole family he was disgusted with the table conversation tonight. “You know, sometimes I really hate
being the principal's son.” He rinsed his plate and glass and put them in the dishwasher, then left the room.

When he was gone, Claire said, “Tom, what's going on here?”

“Nothing. I took the new boy down to the football field to introduce him to Bob Gorman, and I asked Robby to introduce him around, that's all. But apparently a bit of jealousy has reared its ugly head.”

She said, “That's not like Robby at all.”

“I know. But Jeff Morehouse has always been top man in the backfield, and you know who's always handed off to him. This new kid, I think, will present a threat to Jeff. It's natural that Robby would resent him if he comes in and bumps his best friend.”

“Might be good for Robby. Teach him a thing or two.”

“I think so, too. Listen, about the weekend . . . I'll take care of calling Dad, and you see if you can find a nice place you want to go, okay?”

They both got up and headed for the sink. “I thought I'd talk to Ruth,” Claire said. “She and Dean used to go to inns all the time.”

“Good idea.”

They each rinsed their plates and Claire put them in the dishwasher. Standing above her, studying her curved back, Tom was struck by a tidal wave of panic. Nothing had ever threatened his marriage before, but suddenly the worry was there, hanging over his head, and it terrified him.

“Claire?” he said as she straightened.

“Hm?” She was busy doing three things at once: reaching for the dishcloth, turning on the tap, sloshing hot water around the sink. He curled a hand around her neck and made her stop moving. She turned and looked up at him, her wet hands still trailing over the edge of the sink. He
wanted to say,
I love you
, but his reason for doing so seemed suddenly prompted by panic and less than honorable. He wanted to kiss her passionately, make up for the times he maybe should have done so in the past, mark his indelible possession of her as the wife he loved and would always love.

But Chelsea was rising from the table now, too, bringing her dirty dishes to the sink.

“What, Tom?” Claire whispered, searching his troubled eyes.

He put his lips by Claire's ear and whispered words that were far from what he meant. “Take something sexy to wear on Saturday night, okay?”

When Tom walked from the room, Claire's eyes followed him. Her lips wore a transient smile, for inside, a disquieting voice was calling after him,
What's wrong, Tom? What's wrong?

R
UTH
Bishop's front door was open when Claire crossed the yard to the house next door. She knocked on the screen door and called, “Ruth, are you there?” After half a minute, she peered into the entry and called again, “Ruth?” No voices, clinking dishes, or signs of supper. The double garage door was open, and Ruth's car was there, although her husband Dean's was gone.

Claire knocked again.

“Ruth?” she called.

Finally Ruth appeared from Claire's left—the direction of the bedrooms—shuffling to the door and opening it spiritlessly. She looked crumpled and crestfallen. Her long, thick brown hair, always unmanageable, stuck out like grape tendrils in every direction. Her red-rimmed eyes had violet pillows beneath them. Her voice was coarser than usual. “Hi, Claire.”

Claire took one look at Ruth and said, “What's the matter?”

“I don't know for sure.”

“But you've been crying.”

“Come on in.”

Claire followed Ruth into the kitchen.

“Do you have time to sit for a while?” Ruth asked.

“Of course. Just tell me what's wrong.”

Ruth got out two glasses and filled them with ice and 7-Up without asking what Claire wanted. She carried the drinks to the table, then sat down with her shoulders slumped. “I think Dean is messing around.”

“Oh, Ruth, no.” On the tabletop Claire covered the back of her friend's hand and gave it a squeeze.

The sliding glass door was open and Ruth stared disconsolately at the redwood deck, which had been built around a mature maple tree. Her blue eyes filled with tears, and she ran her fingers back through her tangled hair. She sniffed and looked down into her glass. “Something's going on. I just know it. It started last spring right after I made that trip out to Mother's with Sarah.” Ruth and her sister, Sarah, had taken a trip out to Phoenix to spend a week with their parents, who were buying a home in Sun City.

“What started?”

“Little things . . . changes in routine, new clothes, even a new aftershave. Sometimes I'd come to the door of our bedroom and he'd be on the phone with somebody and say goodbye right away. When I'd ask who it was, he'd just say, ‘Somebody from the office.' At first I didn't think much of it, but this week I've answered two telephone calls that were hang-ups, and both times I knew somebody was there because I could hear music in the background. Then last night he said he was just going to run up to the store for a battery for his watch, and when he came back I checked the odometer on the car. He went twenty-five miles and was gone for nearly an hour and a half.”

“But did you
ask
him where he went?”

“No.”

“Well, don't you think you should, before you jump to conclusions?”

“I don't think I'm jumping to conclusions. It didn't just happen overnight, it's been happening all summer. He's
different
.”

“Oh, Ruth, come on, this is some pretty circumstantial evidence. I think you should just ask him where he was last night.”

“But what if he
was
with somebody else?”

Claire, who had never doubted her husband a moment in their marriage, felt great empathy for her friend. “You really don't want to know, is that what you're saying?”

“Would you?”

Would she? The question bore some impact, when considered fully. Ruth and Dean had been married even longer than she and Tom. They had two children in college, a house nearly paid for, retirement in the offing, a marriage that had—to the best of Claire's knowledge—no overt problems. Their situation was much like Claire and Tom's. The mere idea that such a stable marriage could be fraying at the seams unsettled Claire. She could imagine how it must terrify Ruth, and how strong was her friend's inclination to abstain from further investigation. Yet Claire worked in an atmosphere that valued communication and counseling as the means toward problem solving.

“I think I would,” she answered. “I think I'd want to know the truth so we could work at the problems.”

“No, you wouldn't.” Ruth's firm rebuttal startled Claire. “You just think you would, because it isn't happening to you. But if it ever happens to you, you'll feel differently. You'll hope that if there's anything to it he'll just come to his senses
and break it off with her so that it'll never have to be brought out in the open.”

“So that's what you intend to do? Pretend you aren't worried and say nothing?”

“Oh, God, Claire, I don't know.” Ruth let her forehead drop onto her hands, driving her fingertips into her disorderly hair. “He dyed his hair. Do you realize that?” She lifted her head and repeated belligerently, “He dyed his hair, and we all joked about it with him, but what made him do it? I certainly didn't mind the gray starting, and I told him so. Doesn't it seem out of character for him to do a thing like that?”

It did, but Claire decided agreeing would only deplete Ruth further.

“I think this last year has been hard for both of you with Chad leaving for college. No kids left at home, getting on toward middle age—it's a difficult transition to make.”

“But other men make it without taking mistresses.”

“Now, Ruth, don't say that. You don't know it's true.”

“Last week one night he didn't come home for supper.”

“So what else is new? If I accused Tom of cheating every time he didn't make it home for supper, our marriage would have been over years ago.”

“That's different. His job keeps him at school, and you know it's a legitimate reason.”

“But I still have to trust him a lot, don't I?”

“Well, I don't feel like I can trust Dean anymore. Too many things don't add up.”

“Have you talked to anybody else about this? Your mom? Sarah?”

“No, just you. I don't want my family to know anything. You know how they love Dean.”

“I have a suggestion.”

“What?”

“Plan a weekend away. Take him to somewhere romantic where it'll be only the two of you and you can concentrate on . . . well, on renewal.”

“We used to do that a lot, but that's sort of fallen by the wayside, too.”

“Because he always planned it as a surprise for you. Maybe he got tired of planning all the surprises and it's your turn.”

“Are you blaming me for—”

“No, I'm not. I'm just saying that it takes work. The longer you're married, the more work it takes, for all of us. The same old face on the opposite pillow in the morning, the same old bodies starting to sag here and there, same routine when you make love—or worse, don't make it. How have things been in that department?”

“Crappy, especially since the kids moved away.”

“See?”

“It's not me. It's him.”

“Are you sure?” Claire raised her palms as Ruth began to bristle. “Now don't get so defensive. Just think about it, that's all I'm saying, and for heaven's sake, talk to him. Where is he now?”

“He joined a sports and health club—and that's another thing! Out of the blue he says he has to shape up and gets this membership to a club. Now he's going to be over there several nights a week. At least that's where he says he's going.”

“Why didn't you join it with him?”

“Because I don't want to. I'm tired when I come home from work. I don't want to go to some damned gym and walk on a treadmill for an hour after I've been on my feet all day.”

Though Claire and Ruth were good friends, Claire was
far from blind to Ruth's faults. The woman was stubborn and often refused to accept the truth when it was right before her eyes. She was complacent as a wife, and Claire had long thought she took her husband for granted. She was argumentative at many times when Claire believed she needed to listen, as now.

“Ruth, listen to me. This is a time you need to work
with
Dean, not against him. Be with him every chance you get, and—who knows?—working out at the club together could bring a fresh, new vigor to your relationship, to say nothing of the obvious health benefits it will bring.”

Ruth sighed and slumped her shoulders. “Oh, I don't know . . .”

“Just think about it.” Claire rose to leave, and Ruth accompanied her to the door, where they hugged. “Who knows? You could be totally wrong about Dean. He loves you, you know that.” In the end, Claire hadn't the heartlessness to bring up the subject she had come here to discuss. How could she ask Ruth to recommend a weekend getaway when Ruth's marriage was on a downslide? She decided she'd call one of her coworkers instead.

 

Tom was gone when she got back home, having returned to school at the request of the janitorial staff, who thought they might have solved the mystery of the missing English textbooks.

Shortly after ten
P
.
M
. Claire was stripping off her clothes and preparing to take a shower when Tom entered the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back against it, watching her with lazy interest.

“Hi. . .you're back,” she said, without even turning around. “Did you find the missing books?”

“Nope. We think they were thrown away directly from a loading dock where they were delivered.”

“Oh no, Tom. What are you going to do?” When no reply came, she paused with her thumbs hooked inside the waistband of her stirrup pants and looked back over her shoulder. He remained as he was, leaning against the door. Softer, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Use last year's.” He sounded uninterested in the subject of lost books.

Their gazes held, and even across the room she could sense a stirring within him. “What?” she said, with a smile starting to pull at her mouth. “You've been watching me that way ever since you got home from work.”

“What way?”

“The way you used to when we were dating.”

He grinned, pulled his hips away from the door, sucked in his belly, and began tugging his shirt out of his waistband. “You gonna take a shower?” he asked, just before his head disappeared inside the pullover.

“I need one,” she answered, while continuing to undress. “It was so hot in my room today, and I hate unpacking. It's such dirty work.”

He threw the shirt aside and freed his belt buckle while watching her bend over, naked, scooping her dirty clothes into her arms, heading for the hamper in the bathroom. He sauntered after her, unbuttoning, unzipping, catching her in the act of turning on the shower with one leg protruding from behind the open door and the rest of her turned opaque by its textured glass.

The shower pattered and spat for half a minute before she stepped inside and closed the door. He observed her through the streaming glass, her figure a flickery pastel ghost that
lifted its face, its arms, turned a slow circle, and ran its hands across its chest, revering the water.

He finished undressing and joined her.

Claire's eyes flew open at his touch. “Well . . . hi there, big boy,” she said in a sultry voice, catching his mood with an immediacy he loved.

“Hi there.” Their joined stomachs made the water branch into a
Y
below. “Haven't we met somewhere before?”

“Mmm . . . this morning, at Hubert H. Humphrey High School, in room two-thirty-two?”

“Oh yeah, that's where it was.”

“Then again at the kitchen sink, around six-thirty tonight.”

“Then it
was
you?” His hips moved in a figure eight against hers.

“Yes, it was . . . the one you French-kissed on two very peculiar occasions today.”

“Peculiar?”

“Well, maybe one peculiar occasion. You have to admit, turning a woman on in the middle of a workday in the middle of the workplace is very peculiar for a responsible person like you.”

“Just warming up for the weekend, that's all.” He reached out blindly, felt for the soap, and started using it on her back and buttocks. She grew still, closing her eyes and humming a note of pleasure.

He soaped her breasts and pulled her into a kiss that became as sleek as the fit of their bodies. When it ended, he was touching her inside, where he'd touched her a thousand times and had grown to know her intimate preferences.

“Did you find a place for the weekend?” he murmured.

“Yes. Did you call your dad?”

“Yes. He'll come.”

He pushed the wet hair back from her face and bit the edge of her left nostril, her upper lip, then her lower lip. Holding her slick neck in one hand, he kissed her as if licking a honey jar clean while the hot water hammered their necks and put a flush on their skin.

Against her mouth, he asked, “So where are we going?”

She drew back, doubled her arms behind his neck, and nestled the curve of her stomach just below the curve of his. “I called Linda Wanamaker, and she told me about one up in Duluth. Do you want to drive to Duluth?”

“Hell, I'd drive to Hawaii right now if you asked me to.”

They laughed together, comfortable with that laughter after years of it at times such as these, bonded by it even before they moved to the bedroom.

“Let's get out of here and dry off,” he said.

As they stood outside the shower, four feet apart, drying their backs and bellies, legs and toes, their expectant gazes met, parted, and met again. In unison they chuckled—impatient and knowing—traversing the familiar terrain of pre-coital love play that told them very clearly:
This will be a good one
.

It was.

It satisfied them both, sexually and emotionally, for they'd worked diligently in the early years of their marriage at learning how to achieve such satisfaction. They'd talked. They'd read. They'd failed at times, and fought at others. But they'd come through to the point where they knew that every sexual encounter wasn't going to be as wholly satisfying as the one they'd had tonight.