Mourning Becomes Cassandra (30 page)

“And he doesn’t have to pick up trash,” James continued. “The county is pretty flexible about how he can earn hours—any of Camden School’s service projects count, and I’m taking him to a couple of the church’s home makeovers.” (Mr. Bateman snorted at the word “church.”)

The “model kid” was in playing center, and while I doubted Kyle’s basketball skills would make any college overlook his high school shenanigans, he wasn’t half bad. In some ways, Camden School had opened a door for him that wouldn’t have been open at Bellevue, with its cut-throat athletics and embedded dynasties of jocks. And I’d forgotten how much I preferred high school basketball to the few professional games I’d been to. When Troy dragged me to the Sonics, I often wondered why anyone watched anything but the last quarter—the Sonics would score; the Trail Blazers would score; the Sonics would score; the Trail Blazers would score; the Sonics would miss; the Trail Blazers would win. At least in high school, and certainly in Camden School’s oddball league, there was a lot more missing and blundering on both sides, making for a more suspenseful game. Nor did I mind the absence of cheerleaders, though Nadina and Sonya and Ellie were screeching their heads off on the sidelines. And, whether because of lack of interest or fixation on more pressing issues, the Camden parents had refreshingly low expectations. No worries that parents from opposing teams would get in any ridiculous shouting matches, as occasionally happened at Troy’s Bellevue High basketball games.

After the first quarter the Camden School Cougars were up 12-9. Kyle was on the bench for a breather, so I leaned across James again and asked Mr. Bateman, “Did you do any sports in high school?”

He grimaced, but the pale Mrs. Bateman surprised me by laying a gentle hand on her husband’s arm and speaking up. “Rich played just about every sport, you name it,” she said softly, her voice having just the tinge of an untraceable drawl. “And lettered in all of them. It hasn’t been always been easy for Kyle to find his own path. Basketball is about the first thing he’s wanted to try that his father also did.”

“Never told him he had to do anything I did,” muttered Rich Bateman, a trifle defensively.

“You didn’t have to,” his wife responded. One got the sense this was not a new topic between them. “Every boy has to differentiate himself from his father.”

“Yeah, and getting himself expelled was one way to do it,” retorted Mr. Bateman. “Regular pioneer, our son.”

James cleared his throat. “What are Kyle’s plans for college, by the way? I haven’t asked him, since it seemed like such a tiresome, mentor-y thing to do.” His tact made me blush, thinking how I just the other day “casually” mentioned to Nadina some of the undergraduate prerequisites for veterinary school I found online.

“No chance for Stanford or Cal or the U anymore. I may still be able to pull some alumni strings and get him into Charlottesville—”

“Though Kyle didn’t have any interest in going to Virginia, not even before all this happened,” pointed out Mrs. Bateman. “He’s no business school glad-hander.” Clearly, classifying her as timid was a mistake—she must have learned, after so many years of marriage, just to wait for her opening and then thrust home. Her husband shut his mouth with an audible snap and returned his attention to the game.

While the Cougars’ opponents rallied in the second half and eventually prevailed, the game was close, and they would be rematched a couple more times over the course of the season. Kyle scored twice, drawing disproportionately loud cheers from James and me, and managed a couple key blocks. Mr. Bateman had appeared to find the level of play somewhat painful to behold, but I was pleased when, after the game, he pounded approvingly on Kyle’s pale, sweating shoulder. Before they left, Mrs. Bateman shook my hand again and gave James’ a more heartfelt squeeze, saying in a low voice, “Thank you for helping my son.”

For his part, Kyle accepted our praise and congratulations with his usual shrug, and I tried to rein in my tendency to be overly effusive, which Nadina had told me frankly was “friggin’ embarrassing.” The students planned on hitting Dairy Queen after the game, so James and I headed out to the parking lot.

Hesitating, I nodded shyly, and we started up the hill. Since the open house we had seen each other a few times, once for the promised walk around Green Lake and coffee, and the other times briefly at work or Camden School events like today’s basketball game or last week’s mentor-student indoor rock-climbing activity. James had behaved himself more circumspectly than even I would have wished, I had to admit. There had unfortunately been no need to ask him not to fawn on me in public—putting his arm along the back of my chair at the game had been the most audacious thing he had attempted—and on our walk he had devoted himself to getting to know me better, asking about my family, my childhood, my likes and dislikes. Taking my cue from him, I had done the same.

Unlike Troy, who was the youngest of three brothers, James grew up sandwiched between a pair of sisters. Both of these sisters were married, one living in Spokane and one in Richland, just a few blocks from his parents, and I gathered from some of the comments he dropped that he was the petted family darling, something for the women to worry about and focus on. How was poor James? When would he settle down and move back to eastern Washington to be near the rest of the family? Never mind that there was no video game industry in the Tri-Cities; in his mother’s opinion, James could do just as well working as an engineer in Hanford’s vitrification plant. “Technical is technical,” she declared. “Or you could drive UPS like your cousin Ashley’s husband. They have a great benefits package.” James relayed this remark good-humoredly. “All the people who tormented me in high school still live in Richland, working the gas stations and Jiffy Lubes—I’d be afraid whenever I had to gas up my UPS truck.”

It made me squirm to think I was probably a couple years ahead of his big sister in high school, not to mention imagining what his womenfolk would think of James dangling after an unpromising, older widow, when I’m sure they thought most women not half good-enough for him. At least I wasn’t twice-divorced with three children from different fathers. Sigh. And “dangling” didn’t really describe his behavior. Maybe he had taken to heart my claim that I wanted to hang out as friends and was already dating someone else. When I had made such a claim, I’d thought in all sincerity it was what I wanted, but it didn’t stop me from feeling regret mixed with my relief.

“Were Kyle’s parents what you expected?” asked James, breaking into my dissatisfied thoughts. It was a chilly, misty day, and I was glad to have the uphill walk to warm me up.

I laughed. “Not at all! If it weren’t for Mrs. Bateman’s obvious resemblance to Kyle, I might have suggested they switched babies on them at the hospital. Imagine Kyle having such a hard-nosed businessman for a father—one who must have been a lord of all creation in high school.”

“It makes sense to me,” James countered. “Kyle’s been pretty clear that he doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes. Maybe fear that he couldn’t turned into an effort to sabotage himself.”

Pondering this, the pieces clicked together. “You’re right. That’s almost what Mrs. Bateman was saying—that Kyle had to differentiate himself. He wasn’t going to be a star athlete; he has no interest in business; and his dad seemed to have big college expectations for him. Well, Kyle took care of those, though it sounds like he’s traded in one kind of burden for another. I think Mr. Bateman isn’t going to let him just go do whatever he wants now—he’ll just give up on those top computer-science schools and shoot for one tier down.”

James nodded. “At least Mrs. Bateman isn’t afraid to speak her mind—she’s definitely all for Kyle choosing his own destiny. I think she’ll keep pushing back on her husband.”

“That surprised me,” I wondered. “She looked so fragile and retiring. I would’ve guessed Kyle’s dad wore the pants in that family, but I think she may have at least one leg on.”

After a beat, James said, “Who wore the pants in your marriage?” He had such a natural way of asking things that it was rather like talking with Nadina. There would be no uncomfortable tears shed on my behalf, no awkward shoulder pats.

I grinned. “It was like there were several pairs of pants in our marriage, and depending on what it was, sometimes Troy wore them and sometimes I wore them and sometimes we both had a leg on. I did all the money stuff, but in lots of other areas, I felt comfortable letting him cast the deciding vote.” I laughed shortly. “And sometimes we still fought over the pair of pants and ran different directions and split them down the seam.”

“Something funny?”

“We were married eight years, and the holidays never did get sorted out,” I explained. “In fact, it got even worse after Min was born because then our families
really
wanted to monopolize us. We would end up trying to please both sides and getting in huge fights ourselves.”

“So where will you be this Christmas?”

“Don’t tell Daniel, but I think Perry and my parents are planning to congregate up here, and I’ll probably have to do some time with my former in-laws as well, with and without my family. Should be a blast,” I added, unable to keep a note of sarcasm from my voice. “What about you? Will you head across the pass to Richland?”

“Yes, ma’am. Go bounce my nieces and nephew on my knee, hear about my mother’s latest career plans for me, and probably get introduced to at least one homely friend of my little sister’s who has a great personality.”

“You’re awful!” I cackled, pushing him.

Quick as lightning, he grabbed my hand and hung on to it. “Want to get some dinner tonight? I could skip singles.”

For all that I’d been worried he didn’t like me anymore, I felt a wave of panic and pulled my hand away, balling it in a fist and answering lightly, “I cook on Wednesdays. And you should go to singles because you’re most definitely single. How will you keep rejecting your little sister’s homely friends, if you can’t say you’re making an effort to resolve the problem yourself?”

“I am making an effort,” replied James dryly. “But sometimes the cure is trickier than the disease.”

We had reached the Palace doorstep. Ignoring his comment, I asked, “Will you come tomorrow night for open house?”

“Then I will.” Before I could react, he leaned forward suddenly and kissed me on the cheek. My hand flew to my face, and I saw him grin, as he turned away, whistling, and headed back down the hill to Camden School.

Joanie was playing with her food and driving me nuts.

Phyl and I were verbally sketching out our Christmas decorating plans: who would get the tree, whose nativity sets we would put where, what the outdoor lighting scheme should be, and so on. Ordinarily Joanie would have plenty of opinions, but for the past ten minutes she sat in sullen silence, pushing food around her plate listlessly.

“What is the matter with you?” I demanded waspishly. “Are you not in the mood for Christmas or the hash I made or both?”

She looked up at me with hollow eyes. “Don’t talk to me. You lack sympathy, Cass. Phyl, tell her.”

Phyl laid down the box of multi-colored icicle lights for which she’d been studying the energy usage graph. “I think Daniel won’t object if I put up lots of these—the LEDs use so much less electricity, and I can run them on a timer.” Joanie made an impatient sound, and Phyl added quickly, “Roy is giving Joanie a weird vibe.”

“‘Weird vibe!’” shrieked Joanie indignantly. “He’s suddenly saying he needs some space!”

This was news. I tried, but couldn’t recall, this ever happening in Joanie’s dating history. Of course there was that guy who she claims dumped her freshman year in high school, but Phyl and I suspected she’d made that story up so that other women wouldn’t find her too obnoxious. “Back up,” I ordered. “What are you talking about?”

“Ever since he came back from Florida—you know, at Thanksgiving—he’s been distant,” she complained. “Before he left, he was starting to talk serious, asking me things like how I felt about kids and what I pictured when I got married.”

“Well, no girl has had more opportunities to picture herself married than you,” I interrupted. “Some women never even snag one fiancé, and you’ve had three.”

Her eyes narrowed irritably. “This is what I meant, Cass. You lack sympathy.”

“Roy knows about your three ex-fiancés, doesn’t he?” I persisted.

Stabbing a chunk of sweet potato with her fork, Joanie confessed reluctantly, “I just mentioned Keith, and then I fudged the other two into ex-boyfriends.”

“Ex-boyfriends!” I echoed scathingly. “You’re like the Henry VIII of engagements. You can’t blame Roy for not wanting to be Anne of Cleves.”

“Who the hell is Anne of Cleves?” hollered Joanie, losing patience. “I want to talk about me!”

Phyl laid a cautionary hand on my arm. “Do you think he was going to propose then got cold feet, Joanie?”

“I don’t know what happened,” she snapped. “Yes. No. Maybe. All I know is that Sunday after church he tells me he wants to slow down a little, and I’ve been waiting for him to call since then, and here it is Wednesday.”

“Do you even want to marry him?” I asked point-blank.

Not surprisingly, Joanie waffled. The first two times she began to speak, she thought better of it, and she finally even took a giant bite of dinner to stall. “Yes, of course I do,” she insisted, after swallowing it down with a sip of water. “That is, not right straight away. I mean I like him a lot. Oh, hell, I don’t know if I want to marry him, but I don’t want him to break up with me! I want to decide. I want to dump him, if there’s going to be any dumping.”

“You,” I replied, “are as bad as Daniel.” Ignoring her indignant gasp, I pressed on. “You don’t sleep around, but you have the same habit of holding back in relationships and shying off from commitment. To get out of real intimacy, Daniel tells himself he’s bored, and there’s always someone new and interesting around the next corner. You, on the other hand, flirt with real intimacy until it comes too close, and then you run away. But it’s the same thing, in the end. You both just have the good fortune to be unnaturally attractive; otherwise you wouldn’t have nearly as many victims to try this on.”