Taking Terri Mueller (16 page)

TWENTY-SIX

“Hello, Daddy?”

“Terri! Terri, honey, how are you?”

“I'm fine, Daddy. How are you?”

“Well, lonely for you, and looking forward to next week when you come home. But, otherwise, okay.”

Terri stared out through the phone booth at the school across the street. From the decorations in the window it looked like it was an elementary school. So that wouldn't be the one she'd go to. “How's Barkley?”

“Oh, the old boy misses you, keeps going into your room and whining, and then looking at me, like, ‘Hey, mister, what's going on?'”

Terri wet her lips. This wasn't going to be easy. “Well, I called to tell you something.”

“What's that, honey?” She felt his voice was sharpened by foreknowledge. “You sound serious.”

“I—” She cleared her throat. “Daddy—” Was there a right way to say this? “I want to stay here,” she said.

“Stay there?” he repeated.

“Stay. With my mother.”

“You mean stay longer?”

“No,” she said. “Stay.”

“So that's how it is,” he said, after a moment. “So that's what happened. So that's what Kathryn has been up to.”

“No—it's my decision,” she said, gathering breath. “It's my own decision.”

There was a long silence. The sun struck off the glass booth.

“You and Kathryn are getting along?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. I like her. I love her,” she said humbly, not wanting to hurt him. “I'll come visit you,” she said.

“Visit?
Visit?
You know I want more than that!”

Hadn't all this happened before? The sharpness in her throat, the sense of being torn . . . pain like a worm threading its way behind her eyes . . . Yes, she remembered. One of the first phone calls with her mother, standing in the grungy booth outside Azria's . . . and her mother crying,
I want more!
And here she was again in a phone booth, cleaner, indeed sparkling, and the California sun shining as the Michigan sun had not. But no matter, it was all the same.
I want more
. . .
I want more
. . . They both wanted, her mother and her father, wanted and wanted, and she had to choose.

“It's only fair,” she said, her throat tight.

“Fair?”

“You had me for eight years—”

“Yes, and now what, Terri? You call that loyalty? I thought I brought you up better than that.”

“Daddy!” She couldn't keep the pain and anger out of her voice. “You're unfair.”

“I want you to come home—Terri—”

“Unfair!” She wouldn't let him talk, soothe her, persuade her. “Can't you leave me alone!” And she hung up on him.

That night she had a dream. Apparently, it was California, her mother's house, but it was a big room, empty except for two chairs. Her father was sitting in one chair. The other was empty. She saw that her father was defeated, and it hurt her, but at the same time, because he had taken so much from her, it made her glad. He deserved to be defeated and hurt. She stared at him hard, giving him a proud look, not letting his humble, defeated eyes make her turn away.

“You had it all your way for so long,” she said. “You had it your way for eight years.” It was like a song.
You had it your way
. . . It was good that he was hurting. He would hurt for a little while or for a long time, but in any case it would never make up for what he had stolen from her mother and her.

But all the time she thought this she noticed the way he sat very straight and kept a little smile in the corners of his mouth, as if he were determined not to give in to the defeat, determined not to break down. And this pleased her. She thought, My father is a fighter, he won't give up. She was pleased with him for not crying, for not begging, and at the same time she felt such an astonishing wave of pity for him that she understood that she must love him very much. Despite everything, she still loved him very, very much.

Two days later, she received a letter from Nancy.

Dear Terri,

I wanted you to hear this from me. Last night Phil and I had a long talk, and the upshot was that we are breaking off our relationship. It will not be mended again. I'll be frank with you—
I
am the one who wants this, not Phil. I'm not happy about it, but I don't see what else to do, Terri. No new reasons, really, only more of the same things that you and I talked about.

Phil can't, or won't, understand or admit that what he did when he took you was WRONG. We have talked about it from every angle and we are too far apart in our beliefs and views.

I still love him, but with such a profound sense of doubt, such bewilderment, that it no longer means happiness for me to be with him. I guess you know I hoped that someday we would get married. But how could I marry and have his child (which I would want) and
not
live in fear that if our marriage didn't work, he would take our child and run,
as he did with you?

Dear Terri, this was happening before you left. I didn't want to put a cloud over your trip. But now it's all come to an end. I love you very much. Do you know how much I wish that things could have worked out? But it isn't meant to be.

Much love, Nancy.

P.S. Leif loved his letter from you. So did I!

TWENTY-SEVEN

“I wonder if the mailman has come yet?” Merle said, looking out the side window. They were sitting around the counter in the kitchen eating a banana cream pie that Ethel and Bob had brought over. “Want to get the mail, Leah?”

“Yeah!” Leah bent to hastily pull on her blue ballet slippers. The rest of her outfit was a pair of blue underpants and a sleeveless tee shirt.

“One of these days you'll send Leah for the mail and you'll be sorry,” Kathryn said. Wearing a high-necked green shirt, jeans, and a green cotton scarf tied bandit fashion around her forehead, she looked especially splendid to Terri. “There'll be a thousand-dollar check in the mail and—”

Merle tipped back in his chair. “Where would that thousand dollars come from?”

“Some mysterious rich relative we've forgotten, who remembers us.” She took another slice of pie. “I've got to stop eating this. Ma, you shouldn't bring rich stuff like this around.”

“Oh, what's life without a little cream pie on New Year's Day,” Terri's grandfather said. “Right, Terri?”

“Right, Grandfather.” Outside it was raining again, a
dismal greyish day. Inside, the overhead light with its red Chinese lantern shade cast a warm glow over the counter. Terri was wearing jeans and a pale lime-green shirt (same color as her mother's), but everyone else was more brilliant: her grandmother in a bright yellow dress with an orange and yellow bow at her neck, her grandfather in his pink cowboy shirt with the pearl buttons, and even Merle had added red suspenders to hold up his plaid pants.

“Two more days and school starts,” he said, rocking in his chair, arms folded on his chest. “And Terri and I will be going together. Now that's going to be nice!”

They all looked at her, their smiles like a warm bath.

“Wait till the boys see her,” her grandfather said. “All those California beauties will have to move over.”

“Grandfather!” Terri smiled, but felt a twinge of alarm. All morning she had been feeling let down and uneasy; she didn't know why, and that made her especially quiet. It coudln't be the prospect of the new school; she'd gone through all that too often.

The night before, New Year's Eve, they had celebrated with a big dinner—bowls of food and plenty of wine. Long before midnight, her mother had cried, kissing Terri and pulling her down on her lap. With her mother's arms tightly around her waist, Terri had leaned back and drifted into one of those exquisite and unspeakable moments of happiness. Then, seeing Leah, face flushed, she had pulled her sister onto her lap.

“It's a sandwich,” Leah had said.

Amidst the laughter, Merle had gone scurrying for his
camera. “I gotta have that shot for the family album!”

As much as she had felt part of and inside the bright warmth of her family circle last night, Terri now felt herself separated, drifting on the outside. It was so bad to feel this way . . . to feel something nagging, almost sore . . . and a kind of greyness, like a veil between herself and everyone else. Her eyes went out of focus. The worst part was not knowing why she felt like this.

Leah came in. “I got the letters.” Her hands were behind her back.

“Give them to Mommy,” Kathryn said.

“No. I'll open the letters.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Leah—”

“Give them to Gramma, sweetie.”

“No.”

“
Leah
. . .”

“No.”

“Now, Leah, little girl, listen to Grampy—”

She was delighted with the attention; her eyes swept from one adult to the other, lighting at last on her sister. “I'll give the letters to Terri,” she decided. “Okay? Okay?”

“Don't agree with her,” Kathryn said, “or she'll change her mind. Leah, I think you have all the makings of a power broker.”

“A definite lust for power,” Merle agreed. Leah went to Terri.

Her hands came from behind her back.

“No mail!” she said.

“No mail?” Merle said.

“I tricked you,” Leah said.

“Oh, what's the matter with us anyway?” Kathryn said. “It's New Year's Day—no mail today.”

Shifting in her seat, Terri felt Nancy's letter folded in her back pocket and thought of the letter she had tried to write her father. She had wanted to tell him that she knew about Nancy, that she was sorry and was thinking of him. It had all come out sounding mealy-mouthed and phoneysweet.

“Is something the matter?” her mother asked, leaning toward her. Terri shook her head. “You're so quiet, honey.” She tied her pirate scarf tighter at the back of her head.

“No, I'm fine.”

“Okay . . .” Her mother put her hand over Terri's, and Terri had an impulse to kiss her mother's hand, but she didn't. She felt a dislike for herself, a surge of dissatisfaction that made her reach for another slice of cream pie. She stuffed in the sweetness and felt worse. And then, finally, looking around at the family, listening to the bickering and bantering, she thought about her father. What was he doing now? Who was he with? No one, she answered herself with cold clarity.

And she saw a vivid picture of him at home in the living room, maybe eating a cheese sandwich, Barkley lying on the floor, and the TV on to the Rose Bowl. And that was it . . .

This image so upset her that she couldn't sit there another moment. She left the table and got a jacket. “Where're you going?” her mother said.

“Out for a walk.”

“I'll go with you,” Leah offered.

“No, Leah, it's raining,” Kathryn said.

“Terri's going!”

“Yes, but she's a big girl.”

“I am, too!”

“Terri,” Merle said, “see if you can find a drugstore that's open and buy us shampoo, okay?”

“Any special kind?” she asked.

“Anything you like. Here—” He gave her some money.

“Come back soon, sweetie,” her grandmother said. “Wait, wait, let me kiss you.” She pulled Terri's head down and smacked her heartily on both cheeks.

“Ma, she's just going for a walk.”

“I want to go, too,” Leah said.

“That's all right, maybe it's just a walk to you,” her grandmother said, “but to me, I still want to kiss her every time she goes out of my sight.”

“Ethel's emotional,” her grandfather said, brushing back his hair.

“I'll see you all pretty soon,” Terri said. Outside, she drew in a deep breath of the cool wet air. She walked for a long time. Why were things in life so unfair? Why couldn't everyone be happy at the same time? Why was it that if you thought of one person, you probably hurt the other person? Why couldn't someone come along and make things right—Wonder Woman, or Superman, she wouldn't care! Just someone who could say, Terri, do
this
and do that and you can have what you want, and they'll all feel good.

Because what she wanted was her mother. And what she wanted was her father. And what she didn't want was to do what she had done—to choose one over the other.

And thinking this, walking through the rain, she thought how for years her mother had nothing . . .
nothing
. . . while her father had her, and then her and Nancy and Leif. Now her mother had Merle, Grandmother and Grandfather, Leah, and Terri . . . and her father had nothing . . .
nothing.

Her head was wet. She kept walking.

When she came back, they had all moved into the living room. Her grandparents were lying on the couch next to each other, asleep. The TV was on, her mother was reading, and Leah was curled in Merle's lap, sucking her thumb. A bowl of fruit was on the coffee table.

“Mom,” Terri said, “can I talk to you?”

Her mother put down her magazine. “Private?”

Terri nodded. They went into her mother's room and closed the door. “You're soaked,” her mother said, taking a towel from a wicker laundry basket in the corner and toweling Terri's hair.

“Mom,” Terri said, her head bent beneath her mother's hands, “I have to change my mind. I've got to go back.”

Her mother's hands went on toweling her head. Maybe the words had been muffled. Kathryn seemed to have heard only “change,” and asked, “Are your feet wet, too?”

“Mom.” Terri put her hands over her mother's and looked up. “I have to go back to Daddy. I have to.” The words seemed awful and full of the truth.

“
Why?
” her mother said.

“He has nothing now . . . and I love him . . . and I feel sorry for him.”

Now her mother heard her. “Sorry? Did he feel sorry for me when I was alone? Alone, Terri? He doesn't know what the word means.
I
was alone,” she said passionately. “I was alone for four years until I met Merle. I was alone without you for eight years. Let me tell you something, Terri! If I had my way, Phil would be alone forever, because alone is hell, and I think he deserves it.”

“No, he doesn't.” Terri's voice was choked. “I don't even—I can't talk to you about this—”

“So it's not settled,” her mother said. “Will it ever be settled? I don't want you to go!” Her voice rose. And roughly she went on toweling Terri's head.

Terri was near tears. She thought of the little toy that her grandfather had brought for Leah, the old-fashioned wooden toy with a little green monkey, arms outstretched, dangling between two bars. When you squeezed the bottom of the bars together, the monkey flipped over. When you didn't squeeze, there the monkey dangled, arms stretched wide between the bars. And that was how she felt—the monkey on the bars. The monkey in the middle.

“Eight years,” her mother said. “Eight years.”

The tears broke. “No. No . . . please.” Terri stood there, not moving, tears sliding down her face.

“Oh, my dear,” her mother said. “Oh, my dear. Don't cry, don't cry.” She blotted Terri's tears with the towel. “No,
don't
let me make you cry.”

Then they held each other as they had at the airport. “I know you have to do this,” her mother said. “I know you're doing what you feel is right. I know it. You mustn't listen to me—I let my anger speak. I love you.” She kissed Terri's face repeatedly. “I love you, and I'm not going to lose you again. And I'll tell you something else,” she said. “I know how hard it is for you. And I'm proud of you. I'm so proud of you. I wouldn't want you any other way than the way you are. I love you, I love you.”

“And I love you,” Terri said.