Suncatchers (27 page)

“Troy.”

“Tell her you want to talk to Troy, and not just for today but regular. Set it up! Set it up today.”

Perry nodded. “I should. I really should.”

“You
want
to, don't you?” Jewel asked, and he nodded again.

“Then do it!” Eldeen said, pouring more dressing onto her salad. “Pick up the telephone and call her and tell her. Joe Leonard here doesn't have a daddy, bless his heart, but your little boy does, and he needs to know it.” They all grew quiet as Stanley returned with their entrees.

Afterward Perry couldn't say how it had happened, but before they left the Purple Calliope, he had told Jewel, Eldeen, and Joe Leonard things about himself that he had almost forgotten. He wasn't sure if it was Jewel's low musical voice and easy manner or Joe Leonard's silent, sympathetic interest or Eldeen's frank questions. Anyway, it all worked together to loosen his tongue. Dinah would have been amazed if she could have heard him—he was sure of it. She would think he'd been on some kind of mind-altering drugs. Maybe the muted organ music and the sibilant conversation of the other diners had something to do with it. Maybe even Stanley with his delicate glidings around the table somehow diverted his attention, eventually dulling his natural wariness and loosening his reserve.

Whatever it was, Perry was astonished to hear himself talking about his last memory of his father—the dark night he had awakened, terrified, and stood at the top of the staircase looking down at the front door standing wide open in the middle of January, his father sprawled across the threshold and his mother sobbing on the floor in the hallway, surrounded by shattered crystal figurines—her prized collection swept from the shelf and lying like chipped ice on the hardwood floor. He could still see the tiny glass antlers of the deer lying on the bottom step as he crept down.

He never saw his father after that, and his mother was never the same person again. He remembered the shame ever afterward of seeing other boys with their dads and knowing he didn't have one to take him places, to teach him all the things fathers teach, to brag about. He remembered the dreams he used to have about walking along with his hand in his father's and suddenly looking up to find nothing but thin air. And it hit him now with horrible force that he had left Troy to struggle with those same feelings of shame and fear.

At some point in the conversation at the Purple Calliope, Perry had told Jewel, Eldeen, and Joe Leonard about his mother's remoteness, her tendency to forget important dates and lose track of a conversation. He even told about her failing to show up for his high school graduation. She had been taking a pie out of the oven when he left home that night—lost as always in her private world of cooking—but she had stopped to watch him walk across the kitchen in his cap and gown. She had called after him, distractedly, promising to follow shortly. But Beth had come to the ceremony alone, looking distressed and apologetic, and later they discovered that their mother had taken off walking toward the civic auditorium and had waited outside on a bench for over an hour, even though Perry had told her repeatedly that the graduation ceremony was being held in the school auditorium.

“Well, now, that there's a sad story,” Eldeen had said as she shook her head slowly. “People like that can be real funny sometimes, like a uncle of mine that kept wandering out in the middle of the highway totin' a big bag of dirty clothes and then spreadin' them all out on the median, thinking he was at the Wash-a-teria—but then they can also be a real heartache and trial, like when they don't even come see their own son get his diploma.” She then reached over and patted Perry's shoulder.

Perry thought later that this was exactly the kind of thing he had always dreaded—forgetting himself and blathering on and on. But whenever he thought about it in months to come, he felt no humiliation, only a sense of wonder that such a thing had actually happened. He realized, of course, that this was due to the collective compassion of his three listeners. If any one of them had glanced at another one with the faintest flicker of disbelief or amusement, it would have been over.

At the end, Perry looked around the restaurant and noticed all of a sudden that most of the other diners had left. He felt his face flush as he realized how talkative he'd been and how much he had revealed of himself. Maybe he ought to lighten the mood now by saying something flippant like “Okay, everybody, on the count of three, say, ‘Poor, poor Perry.' All right, here we go—one, two, three. . . .” But Stanley was there with the check now, and Eldeen was assuring him that no, they didn't want
or need
dessert because Jewel had just made a blueberry cobbler yesterday and they could heat that up at home and put a little Cool Whip on top of it.

Then she pinched the cuff of Stanley's purple jacket, tugged at it actually, and said, “Stanley, I'd like to invite you to come to our church. It's over close to Montroyal—the Church of the Open Door, it's called. You've probably passed right by it dozens of times, 'specially if you do your grocery shopping at Thrifty-Mart. It'd please us more'n we could tell you if you'd come visit.” She gave his hand a teasing swat. “And if you came tonight, we'd even invite you over to our house for some of that cobbler I was telling you about.”

Stanley looked at her for a long time and then bent forward in a rapid bow. “That's nice of you, ma'am,” he said, “but I'm afraid I won't be able to make it.” He laced his long smooth fingers together in front of him and took a small neat step backward.

As he turned to leave, Eldeen opened her purse and extracted a packet of leaflets secured by a rubber band. “Here, wait a minute, Stanley!” she called. “I got something for you to read. This here'll tell you some mighty important things if you'll just take a minute to read it after you finish up here at your job.” She handed him a tract with a question printed in bold red on the front: “WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY?” Stanley took it and fled toward the kitchen.

Getting into the car a few minutes later, Eldeen had gazed sorrowfully at the front door of the Purple Calliope. “I need to put that young man on my prayer list,” she said. “I can just tell from watching him that Satan's got him under his heel and is stomping down real hard. Real, real hard. Inside, he's a sad, sad man.” She clucked her tongue loudly and steadily like a metronome. “I sure want him to see how much Jesus loves him.”

18

The Hourglass of Time

As it turned out, though, Perry had decided to approach Dinah first by means of a letter instead of by telephone. He knew it was cowardly. He knew that when Dinah read the letter, she would say to herself, or maybe even out loud, something like “That's right, Perry, put it all down on paper like the chicken you are and then go back and stick your head in your shell.” It would never occur to her that the wording was all wrong.

All his life Perry had taken refuge in writing. If some communication couldn't be ignored, he would write it rather than tell it face to face or even over the telephone. Early in his marriage, however, he had found it easy to talk—or at least he thought he was talking, although Dinah had informed him two years ago that he had never been able to look her in the eye and talk,
really
talk. What was it, though, he wondered, when he told her he didn't like the way her mother tried to organize everybody else's life? Or the time during his research when he described to her the passionate altercation he had witnessed between a Lithuanian man and his daughter's Armenian boyfriend? Or when he shared with her Cal's troubles with his children? What was it if it wasn't talking? He wondered if she would have called it
talking
had she heard him in the Purple Calliope divulging all his family secrets.

After several days of deliberation and two rough drafts, he had simply written, finally, that he would like to call Troy every week, and he had decided that a good time might be at nine o'clock every Sunday night, which would be ten o'clock here in Derby. At least that might be a good time now that school was almost out, and then when it started again in September, they could reconsider if she thought it was too late. He had said that his first call would be in two weeks, on May 30, and if she had any questions or comments she could write back before then. He had closed it with “Sincerely” and neatly signed his first name. She hadn't written back, of course, as he knew she wouldn't, but he had called anyway on May 30. Troy had answered, and so the weekly phone calls had started. Tonight's July Fourth call was the sixth one.

The sound of Troy's voice over the telephone never failed to fascinate Perry.
My son
, he always thought. This is
my son
I'm talking to. At the first sound of his voice each week, Perry started dreading the end of the conversation, and at each good-bye he began looking forward to the next week's call.

“I've had a
full
July Fourth, how about you?” Perry said. “Your old dad played softball today.”

“Did you get any hits?” Troy asked.

“Sure did. Even scored two runs.”

“We're going to see fireworks here,” Troy said, “soon as I hang up.”

Perry couldn't tell if that was a hint to cut the phone call short or not.

“We just got back from seeing some here,” Perry said, “but yours will probably be bigger.”

“Did somebody go with you?”

“Oh, just the people at the church and the next-door neighbors—nobody in particular, really.”

“Do those people have any boys?”

“Who?”

“Those neighbors next door.”

“Well, yes, they have a boy about—let's see, he's a little more than six years older than you. And that reminds me of something. Doesn't somebody have a birthday next month?”

“Are you coming home for my party?” It was the first time Troy had mentioned such a possibility. Perry had begun to wonder if the boy had even missed him. Their talks had been so—surface, really, just polite questions about everyday things going on and brief, unembellished answers.

“Well, I . . . I'm still working down here in South Carolina, you know, and . . .”

“Can't you take a vacation? It's summer.” There was a brittle edge to Troy's voice, an upward inflection at the ends of words—the same tone he used to adopt right before throwing a fit.

It sounded so simple. To Troy it was just a matter of getting in the car and driving. He couldn't begin to comprehend all the complexities of the situation—the awkwardness of seeing Dinah, which of course couldn't be avoided if he went to see Troy; the weight of a thousand memories that would fall on him anywhere he turned; all the hurts from childhood hanging over Rockford like a heavy cloud; the regrets, the self-loathing, every tongue-tied blunder he'd ever made; even the sight of Troy and the immense burden of knowing that he, the boy's own father, hadn't been able to hold his child's world intact.

“But I'll call you and find out all about your party, and I'll send you a present, of course.” Perry's words rushed together. “Is there anything special you're wanting? I can start looking now and make sure it's the best one I can find, and I'll have it all wrapped up and mailed in plenty of time—even if it takes a moving van to get it there, and . . . Troy? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“How about it? Any ideas for a birthday gift?”

“No.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Perry heard a sound in the background like dishes clinking against one another.

“Sounds like you and Mom are getting ready to eat something.”

“No. Mom's unloading the dishwasher is all.” Troy's tone was flat now. Maybe he wasn't sure how to go about throwing a fit over the telephone, or maybe he really was growing out of his tantrums finally.

“Did you go swimming today?” Perry asked.

“No, it rained.”

“No fishing either?”

“No, I said it rained. I can't find my pole anyhow.” He was back to whining now.

“It's in the garage, remember, on the wall over by the lawn mower. It's lying across those two big nails.” Silence. “Has it stopped now?”

“What?”

“The rain.”

“Yeah.”

Perry was stalling now. He knew the conversation was over.

“Is . . . is your mother all right? Is she working much?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you still going over to Grandma's when Mom is working?”

“Yes.” Troy sighed, and Perry wondered if he was impatient to get to the fireworks or if he was just bored with talking. Maybe he was disgusted with the poor excuse of a father life had furnished him with, a father who played softball and went to fireworks displays with other people now, a father who wasn't home to help him find his fishing pole, who wouldn't even come to his birthday party.

They hung up a few minutes later, after Perry had made a feeble effort to describe the Derby Independence Parade that had been held downtown the day before. Troy showed no interest, though, and at one point Perry even suspected him of setting the receiver down and leaving, but when he said, “Troy?” the boy had mumbled, “What?” Maybe he was reading a book or playing with his Game Boy. When Perry had promised to call again next week, Troy had said, “Okay” and hung up abruptly.

Perry placed the heavy black receiver back in its cradle and then let himself flop back onto the couch. Maybe he would just sleep here all night. He didn't feel like tackling the details of bedtime. He focused his eyes on one corner of the ceiling, then slowly traced the perimeter of the room. Four walls—a small room probably only twelve by fifteen. It needed painting. The nailheads on the studs were beginning to show through. What had gone on inside these four walls over the years? Perry wished he knew. He wished he knew if a family had lived here and been happy. It wouldn't surprise him to find out it had always been inhabited by sullen bachelors, tight-lipped spinsters, childless couples. He couldn't imagine a child in these cheerless rooms banging doors and tumbling on the floor.