Promises (31 page)

“You’ve all been so good to me,” Margaret said.

“That’s what family and friends are for,” Fred told her.

At supper around the kitchen table the talk was subdued and desultory. Yet it was plain to Nina that the girls and Danny were very, very glad to see her. It crossed her mind that she, who had come back to find comfort, would instead need to be giving it. There were four needy people here.

After the short supper the house fell quickly still. Margaret, obviously trying to keep to routine, asked Julie to play, but Julie refused, and so they all dispersed to their rooms. Margaret brought sheets for Nina’s bed and hugged her.

“I’m just so thankful that you’ve come. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“It’s funny that I’ve come because I need you, and—”

“And now I need you.”

For some reason Nina laughed, although she was also crying, and although there was nothing to laugh about. “What a pair we are! And all because of a man.”

“What else?”

“Do you think we’ll get over it?”

“We have no choice but to get over it, have we?”

Brave words when your self-esteem has been shot away, Nina thought. Well, first things first.

“I’m dead tired and you must be too. Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll talk.”

It seemed to Nina that the very house was tired and so was the very night outside, in which no leaf was moving. When she had made up the bed, she sat for a while at the window looking out at the yard. The earth was moonlit, so that shapes were distinct, and her moving gaze was able to distinguish among the trees. When it reached the mountain ash, it came abruptly to a stop. This was the tree that Margaret had helped her plant on her seventh birthday.

“It’s only a stick,” Margaret had said, “but someday it will be as tall as this house. It’s your job to make sure it has plenty of water. Take care of it.”

Now Nina’s mind made an instant association. Keith’s wife, for whom she had felt such hatred, had also been helping a child or children to plant a tree. She had expected to stay in that place and see the tree grow. And suddenly Nina saw her again in all her vulnerability, with her tender face and pregnant belly; she imagined her turned abruptly old and frightened, like Margaret sitting in that room downstairs, or lying alone in her bed.

Like Margaret she, too, had planned for the future, a future that Nina had tried to take away from her.

This time when she wept, and she did so for a long, long time, there was shame in her tears.

*  *  *

Across the hall Megan lay staring at the moonlight on the ceiling and whispering to herself.

“Oh, I
knew
that night when you were arguing and Mom said you had someone else. She believed you when you denied it, but I didn’t believe you. Then I saw you in that restaurant. I hate that woman, and she knows I do. We looked right into each other’s eyes. I’d like to kill her. How can you do a thing like this to Mom? When I think of her in school, how the kids like her! When I think how my friends’ parents talk about her with such respect! How can you do this to her? And now she has to sit here and cry because of you. I think men stink. Boys tell you how pretty you are. They tell you they love you, but they really only want to feel you. Next week, they’ll have somebody else. You can’t trust them.”

Her heart was going wild. She got up and sat on the edge of the bed, still whispering. “I loved you so. You were the best father in the world. How could you do this? That morning when you just walked out and drove away! How can I ever trust anybody again? No, you’re not my father anymore. And I loved you so. I never want to see you. I suppose you’re living with that nasty woman. I suppose you think I’m going to visit you and be nice to her. Well, think again, because I’m not going to.”

Julie turned her pillow, which was damp, to the dry side. People said it was silly to think hearts would break, she thought, but since the morning Dad drove away, she had felt hers wearing out. And she put her hand under the little swell of her left breast to feel what her heart was doing; it seemed to her that it was thumping
too hard, like an engine that is about to break down. She didn’t really care, though. Let it break! Dad would know what he had done, and he would be sorry.

His face had been so cold and angry! He hadn’t even looked at them, had just walked away and gotten into his car. Mom must have done something awful to make him that angry.

Still, Mom had been crying. So if she did do something, she was sorry for it, wasn’t she, or why would she be crying? Why would he run away with somebody else? Megan saw the person, and she said she’s lousy. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t understand it. I’m going to ask Dad when I see him. I’m going to tell him to come back. I want him to come back.

As if he knew Danny needed him, Rufus, who always slept in the hall, had come in to lie next to the bed. When Danny let his hand dangle, he could reach the top of Rufus’s head.

He was trying to sort out his feelings. There were so many of them, and so mixed up. At the moment, his embarrassed thoughts had strayed where they should not, imagining his father and a slim young woman, blond, no doubt, with long hair to her shoulders, and then breasts, small ones that turned up.… He had been thinking about that tonight while he was eating pizza and glancing at his mother when she wasn’t looking.

His mother wasn’t old, though. Not old-old. He had noticed her hands with the gold band still on her finger. The nails were pink and clean: the hand, the arm, the white collar, the white cheeks, were all clean and helpless and sad.

His throat hurt. Could it be, could the reason why Dad had left this nice woman and this nice house, could it have anything to do with him, Danny? Was it my fault? he cried quickly to himself, and as quickly recalled the article he had seen in a magazine at the dentist’s office about how children of divorce believe they are part of the cause. And he remembered that as he glanced through a couple of paragraphs, these children had meant nothing to him but statistics. And now he was a statistic.

He thought maybe he ought to go downstairs and get something to eat, some chocolate-chip cookies or something. They might make me feel better, he said to himself, although he knew they wouldn’t.

Margaret pulled down the shade against the moonlight, which disturbed her thoughts. It was absolutely necessary now to have orderly thoughts, to cease all wandering lamentations, to cease the search that came to nothing.

That night in New York when they had met the woman—was that the night, were those the few minutes, when she had bewitched him? Later in that room they had drunk champagne, and—she remembered it clearly—he had kissed her and blessed them both; had he not loved her, Margaret, with that blessing?

Fruitless questions. Think now, she thought sternly, about what you must do.

First above all, you must guard your children. It is essential that you never belittle their father. You must keep yourself calm; they have seen enough tears that you were not able to hold back; there must absolutely be no more of them. Understand that each child will
react in his own way. A twelve-year-old boy has different responses from those of a teenaged girl. Make sure that they keep in touch with their friends, and you must keep in touch with their teachers. See the lawyer whom Fred has recommended. If I ever need to lean, although I shall try not to, I shall lean on Fred. He wants me to.

When she had finished her mental list, she turned over and willed herself toward sleep. Yet even as she felt its approach, unanswerable questions still floated in the darkness: What is Adam thinking about all this tonight? And where have they gone, our nineteen years?

“Adultery means nothing anymore,” said Stephen Larkin. “You’re looking for some sort of penalty for it, but there is none.”

He was a young man about Margaret’s own age, dark where Adam was blond, but with the same lean bones and rather grave, ascetic look. She was aware that already she had begun to relate other men, even a man seen in passing, to Adam.

“So it comes down to what you’ve been telling me: who sues whom, on what grounds, how much money I’m to have, how we divide what we own—papers. Everything, all the despair, the heartbreak, everything is reduced to a pile of papers.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She looked around the room, at the heat-wilted leaves of the maple framed by the window, and at the walls of legal writings in their dreary brown bindings. All was dry and hopeless.

And she who had been so correctly businesslike until now let her emotions explode, crying out to the stranger on the other side of the desk.

“How did this happen to me? No woman ever thinks life will do this to her!”

He replied quietly, “You live in America in 1993. What reason can anyone have to think it will not happen?”

“There was a worldwide flu epidemic in 1918, but my grandmother didn’t know of anybody who died in it. You don’t live expecting to die in an epidemic, and you don’t live expecting to have your family torn apart. He was my whole life. I wanted to be a doctor, but it didn’t fit in with his plans, so I gave it up. I did it gladly. Gladly, for him! I never in any way, even in thought, belonged to anyone but him.”

And then, in spite of all her sturdy resolutions, she began to cry. Humiliated by her own sobs, yet unable to stop them, she covered her face with her hands.

Considerately, he looked away to leaf through papers. After she had quieted, blown her nose, and wiped her face, he said, so softly now that she strained to hear him, “I hear your pain.”

“Maybe I’m a coward,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you are. Your friend Fred Davis has an entirely different opinion of you. He gave me a lot of helpful background for this case.”

“He spoke well of you too. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ll be here more than once, you know. The law moves slowly, as you’ve no doubt heard.”

“The next step, you said, was for you to get in touch with Adam?”

“With his lawyer, if he has one yet.”

“I don’t know whether he has one yet. I haven’t talked to him and don’t intend to. I let the children answer the phone. Except for Megan, who doesn’t
speak to him, which worries me so.… You’ll need his address, anyway, won’t you? I’ll get it for you. He’s staying with—with her.”

“No need to. Fred gave it to me first thing.”

The meeting was over. At the door Margaret turned back and said sadly, “I don’t think this will be a hard case for you. There’ll be no custody fight, and there’s no fortune to be fought over.”

They shook hands. “You’ll be all right,” Larkin said. “You may not think now that you will be, but you will.”

It was deep night when Adam woke up. What had awakened him he did not know, unless it was the inner happiness that had simply burst through his skin. Looking up through the clerestory windows at the vast brilliance of the stars, he felt a compulsion to go outside. Without disturbing Randi he slid from the bed, unbolted the door, and walked in the silent grove. A night bird twittered and was still. A raccoon sped across the lawn and rustled through the underbrush. It seemed to him then that the loudest sound in all that enchanted place was the steady beat of his own heart.

And he felt a great peace. True, there were many things yet to be considered, loose ends to be gathered up, but for the moment he would consider only the end that had finally been accomplished. He was here with Randi; they were healthy, young, and free.

That morning, just a few days since, he had driven away from Elmsford with a sense of relief that was almost wild. On a sudden crazy impulse he had even stopped at a jewelry store in town and bought a gold bracelet. Having never bought a piece of jewelry before,
he was astonished at the price of it; yet the reckless sensation of taking it out of his pocket and handing it to Randi had been worth any price. And he chuckled now, remembering her delight.

He had told the office that he was sick and would be out for the next few days. Having taken no more than three sick days in all his years at ADS, he felt no guilt. He felt, as a matter of fact, no guilt about anything.

“What
are
you doing out here?” said Randi.

“Do you mean to say you heard me get out of bed? I didn’t make a sound.”

“No, but I felt your absence.” She put her arms around him, murmuring, “I’m so happy that I still can’t believe this is true.”

“I love it here with you, Randi.”

“Of course. This is home. Tomorrow you will even have your kids here.”

“Just two of them. Megan won’t come.”

“Girls that age are stubborn. Don’t worry. She’ll change her mind. And we’ll have a great time with Julie and Danny. I hope you told them to bring their swim-suits.”

“I surely did. I notice a box of chocolate-chip cookies in the kitchen. You remembered that I told you Danny could live on them.”

“I remembered. It’s important that your kids should feel that this is their home too.”

“You’re so good, Randi. The only thing that bothers me is the holidays. I wish they could have Christmas here with us.”

“We’ll have it the next day, that’s all, a second Christmas.
Now let’s go back to sleep so you can get up early in the morning and get them.”

The day was beautiful, breezy, blue, and not too hot.

“Gee, this is great,” Danny said, giving approval to the house, the pool, and probably, Adam thought, to Randi as well.

She looked like a kid herself in her white shorts and red sandals. She said all the right things, admiring Julie’s sundress and telling Danny that no one would ever guess by his height that he wasn’t at least fourteen.

Having made the tour of the house, the four now stood uncertainly, watching Rufus nose his way around the pool.

“I didn’t think you’d mind our bringing him,” Adam said.

“Goodness, no. He’s a gorgeous dog. His hair must need a lot of brushing.”

Danny said promptly, “That’s my job. I do it every day. You don’t have to worry about allowing him in the house. He never does anything in the house.”

Randi smiled at Adam.
Adorable
, the smile said, an adorable boy. Yes, he was. And Julie, thin little thing with shoulder blades like wings and enormous eyes, was a hidden treasure, the kind of wispy adolescent who grows up to be a woman of unusual grace, delicate and piquant. She was unusual already. And Adam was filled with a warm, fatherly pride.