Man, Woman and Child (13 page)

±HEY SAT FACING ONE ANOTHER.

"How did she find out?'' Bob as"ked.

''I don't know. Did you tell Bernie?"

He lowered his head. "Yeah."

"Well, Davey must have overheard the two of them talking... /'

"What're we gonna do?'' he asked Sheila.

"Not we," she said firmly. "This is your problem."

"What do you expect me to do?" he said, unwilling to understand what she was making crystal clear.

"Send him home, Robert," she said curtly. "Now. Today."

She was right.

"Otherwise I'll take the girls and go," Sheila added. Not as a threat but as a simple statement of the alternative.

"Okay," he said, not putting up a struggle. Still, he waited for her to say something vaguely reassuring. Something that could help him face this harsh decision. But she said nothing more.

He rose, went numbly to the phone and dialed.

"They have one seat on tonight's flight," he re-

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ported, putting his hand over the receiver, "but it leaves at seven. . . ."

"You can make it if you hurry/' she said quietly, not turning toward him.

"Okay," she heard him tell the airline. "The name is Beckwith—uh—I mean Gu6rin. Yes, we'll get there an hour before." He hung up and walked over to Sheila.

"I guess I'll have to tell him, huh?"

She looked up, but said nothing.

"Yeah," he murmured, answering himself. "Fll go up and help him pack."

She still did not respond. He turned, started out of the room, and up the stairs.

He was too preoccupied with what he had to say to notice that the phone was ringing.

''Hello, Sheila?"

"Yes."

"Gavin Wilson here. Have I—um—caught you at an awkward time?"

"Well, actually, I just got in and—uh—could I call you back? Are you in Washington?"

"No, that's just the point. I'll be brief. I can tell you're busy. I was thinking that I might just postpone Washington, if you were free—that is, willing to keep forging ahead with the revisions. I mean, I'd come down to you, of course."

"Gavin, I can't," she said.

"Sheila," he persisted, "you sound upset. Is everything all right?"

"Gavin, I'm sorry. Things are too confused. I can't talk now."

She hung up. And for a split second almost laughed. This can't be happening, she thought.

Bob knocked.

''Jean-Claude, may I come in?"

**Yes/' he answered softly. Bob slowly opened the door. The little boy was curled up on his bed. He cast a shy and furtive glance at Bob.

''Can we talk?" asked Bob.

"Yes."

He was nervous, wondering what the boy was thinking.

"Uh-okay if I sit down?"

Jean-Claude nodded. And again glanced fleet-ingly at Bob.

He chose the chair farthest from the bed.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am about the . . . fight with Jessie and Paula. It was just something Davey Ackerman said to make trouble."

He paused.

"Jessie really wouldn't want to hurt you. You know that, don't you, Jean-Claude?"

Without looking up, the boy nodded. Slightly.

"Fm sorry about all this," Bob continued.

The boy looked up at him.

"Would you like me to go home?" he asked.

Bob was embarrassed by the child's perceptive-ness.

"Uh—well, Jean-Claude, I think—we think it might be best for you."

He paused again. Then the boy said:

"When will I be leaving?"

Oh, Christ, thought Bob, he's being so damn good about this.

"Well, that depends," Bob answered, being de-hberately vague to keep a rein on his own emotions, "but why don't I help you pack, just so we'll be ready?"

"That's all right," Jean-Claude answered. "I have only a few things."

"ril help you/' Bob insisted.

''No. There is no need. Do you want me to be ready now?"

Bob hesitated.

"Yes," he said at last. "That would make it easier. I mean . . . Fll be back in a while, okay?"

He got up, crossed the room, touched the boy's shoulder and went out.

He stood for a moment outside Jessica's door, gathering his courage. Then he knocked.

"Who is it?" Jessie snapped belligerently.

"Me. Your father. I want to talk to you."

"I have no father. Go away."

"Please, Jess, open up. Is Paula there?"

"No," Paula's voice retorted through the door. "I hate you more than anything.''

"Jess?" Bob again tried appealing to his eldest. "I love you—"

"Go away and die," she said.

"Go away!" Paula shouted. "Leave Mom and us doner

Heartsick, Bob surrendered and began to walk away. Down the stairs, back to the living room.

Sheila was curled up in the easy chair, hugging her knees.

"He'll be ready in a little while," Bob said softly.

She did not reply.

"He's packing by himself. He didn't want my help."

Sheila still did not reply. But she had a selfish thought: I won't ever have to see that picture in the silver frame again.

"The girls won't talk to me," he added. "Shit. I've devastated them, haven't I? I mean, what the hell can they believe in now? They'll never get over this."

Sheila sat there, silent and unmoving.

He now realized this was going to remain a monologue. So he asked his wife a favor. Directly.

''Can you try and speak to them while Fm gone?"

She looked at him and asked simply, "What could I say?''

Instead of taking Route 6 all the way across the Cape, Bob turned off onto 6A at Orleans. Slower, but prettier. The ^'Cranberry Highway/' with a view of the sea.

The boy had been stoically silent during the last hours before departure. He had packed and then dutifully waited in his room for Bob to come and get him. Bob had carried the green valise, Jean-Claude his flight bag. They walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where Sheila had prepared cheese sandwiches and coffee to fortify them for the journey to the airport.

While the girls remained hermetically sealed in Jessie's room, Sheila had pulled herself together. It could not now get worse. There was even a part of the summer left to try to make things better. Tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of their lives. When words fail, comfortable cliches are always nice to fall back on. She watched the man and the boy eat their sandwiches, and spoke the commonplaces the occasion called for.

*'It was nice having you, Jean-Claude."

His mouth was full. He swallowed and politely answered, *'Thank you, madame."

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Bob was silent, exiled with his conflicts.

'Tm sure Jessie and Paula are sorry for that . . . misunderstanding/'

Everyone knew they were still upstairs. For the preceding hours had been punctuated with their plangent imprecations. The house was wood, after all.

"Please say goodbye for me/' said Jean-Claude.

"Of course."

When they were about to leave, Jean-Claude extended his hand. Sheila took it, and then leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

As Bob watched her, he had his first coherent thought of the afternoon: Am I going to be doing that at the airport, in just three more hours?

They had been riding for barely thirty minutes. Bob tried to make conversation.

"You know, when we passed Orleans, back there, I forgot to tell you something."

He glanced at the boy sitting next to him, clutching his flight bag in his lap.

"It's a curious fact"—Bob rambled like an awkward tour guide—"but that's where they built the very first cable station for telegrams to France. There weren't any phones in those days. . . ."

"Oh," said the boy quietly.

What am I babbling about? Bob wondered. Cables? Yes, he then realized, it wasn't all that irrelevant. You were trying to tell him somehow that you'd still keep in touch. That there was a history of direct communication between Cape Cod and France. Did he understand?

What was he thinking?

They passed Sandwich and he did not comment on the funny name.

They crossed the Cape Cod Canal and did not speak.

''We'll miss you, Jean-Claude/' said Bob.

Coward, don't you even have the guts to use the singular?

Speak for yourself, Bob. And they v^ere just passing Plymouth.

'Tve grown really fond of you/' he added. There, Fve done it. I've expressed my own feelings. Some of them anyway. >

For a long while, the boy did not reply. At last, when they were scarcely an hour from Logan Airport, he spoke.

"Is it true, Bob?''

"What?"

"Are you really my father?''

Bob looked at him. He has a right to the truth, dammit.

"Yes, Jean-Claude, I am your father."

All right, curse me out, kid, I deserve it. For not telling you the minute I first met you, to assuage your grief. For not even telling you today, until you made me.

And now, knowingly this time, abandoning you once again.

"That makes me happy," said the little boy. Yet there was a tinge of sadness in his voice.

Bob glanced at him with an expression that asked: Why?

"My mother used to talk about my father. That he was kind and good. And funny. And . . ."

"Yes?"

"And when I met you, even when I saw you for the first time at the airport, I hoped that maybe my father might be someone like you."

This was my worst fear, thought Bob. Or was it

my best hope? That I would meet my son and he would like me—no, love me^ imperfect as I am.

He reached over and touched the little boy. Jean-Claude took Bob's hand with both of his and held it tightly. Very tightly.

Bob could not look at him. He stared straight ahead, lying to himself that it was because he had to be a careful driver.

The boy still tightly held his hand.

And Bob said to himself; I can t let him go back.

leant let go.

V^HILDHOOD HAD ABRUPTLY ENDED FOR JeSSICA AND

Paula.

As she stood at the top of the stairway, Sheila could hear them talking to one another.

"He's never gonna come back to this house," Paula insisted. ''Never, never, never."

Jessie's tone of voice sounded strangely less agitated. "That's really up to Mom," she said.

There was a pause while Paula considered this.

"How could she even talk to him after what he's done?" she asked.

"I don't know," Jessie answered. "I just hope they don't really—you know—split. I mean, kids from broken homes are always screwed up."

Another silence while Paula tried to ponder the grown-up realities.

"Oh, Jessie, I'm so scared. Everything's different/'

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Yet another pause.

"But who'll take care of Mom?"

Sheila knocked, and opened the door. She found Jessie with her arms around Paula. They both looked relieved to see her. She sat down on the bed.

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"Well, if s been quite a day, hasn't it?'' And she made an effort to smile.

"What's gonna happen, Mom?" asked Paula anxiously.

"Well, Daddy will be back soon," she replied, "and we'll start to pick up the pieces."

"Are we ever gonna be happy again?" Paula asked. Nothing in her world seemed sure now.

"Of course we will. Look, the most painful part of growing up is discovering that nobody's perfect Not even your parents."

"You are," said Paula.

"Nobody is," Sheila insisted.

Jessie looked at her mother's eyes. "You still love Daddy, don't you?"

Sheila nodded. "Jess, weVe been happy for nearly twenty years. Happier than almost anyone." She hesitated and then let slip, "Almost perfect."

"God, Mom," Jessie said painfully. "Life's crappy."

Sheila weighed this judgment for a moment.

"Yes, darling," she acknowledged. "Sometimes it is."

Just then the doorbell rang. Could it be Bob already? The girls were certainly not prepared to face him. She wasn't even sure she was.

"I'll get it," she said.

He's trying to be considerate, she thought as she started downstairs. Instead of just barging in, he rang to warn us.

Sheila opened the door.

It was Gavin Wilson. She was speechless.

"Forgive me for intruding, Sheila," he said, looking ill at ease, "but you sounded a bit strange on the phone. I was rather concerned. Are you quite certain everything is all right?"

*'Oh, yes. It's just that when you called, the children were . . ." She groped for a plausible excuse.

'Tes. Quite/' he said, agreeing with her incompleted thoughts.

They were both a trifle awkward, standing there on the porch, not knowing quite what to say next.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Washington?" she asked, thinking, God, I must look a mess.

''It can do without me for another day, I think."

Oh.

"Would you—uh—like to come in?" she asked. But Gavin sensed that she really did not want him to.

"Well, Fm afraid Fve been presumptuous in rushing down. But I'm glad everything's all right. Look, I'm staying at the Inn. If I can—you know —be of help in any way, just ring. On the other hand, don't feel obliged to."

Shut up, Gavin, you're burbling again.

"That's very kind of you," said Sheila. And then added vaguely, "My husband ought to be back soon. He had to go to the airport."

"Oh?" said Gavin. "Some sort of emergency?"

"You might say so."

"Oh," said Gavin again.

To which Sheila replied, "I'm very touched by your thoughtfulness."

"Yes. Well. Uh—you know where to reach me, then," he answered shyly. He then turned and started back toward his rented car.

"Gavin," Sheila called. He stopped about ten yards from the porch.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to join us for a drink this evening—say, nine-thirty or so?"

"That would be splendid. Should I call and check first?"

*'No, no. Just come by. Bob will be glad to meet you."

"Fine. Well, till then." He waved in a kind of half salute, turned and walked to his car.

How nice he is, thought Sheila. Going to all this trouble. Just for me.

Sheila and the girls were having dinner when the phone rang.