The Stories of Richard Bausch (63 page)

They bumped up the walk, and the three steps to the open doorway, and in, where they set the dresser down and rested their arms on the top of it. “God,” she said, “I’m not up to this. My back hurts.”

Ballinger went into the small kitchen, where there were already several dozen boxes stacked. Reaching into one, he brought out a glass, went to the sink, and tried to run the tap. The pipes gave a clanking sound; a rusty trickle came forth, then stopped.

Melanie came to the doorway and looked at him. “No water, right? I
told
him to call and have them turn it on this morning.”

“Morning’s not over. Maybe they’re just slow.”

William made his way inside, limping, edging past the dresser. “Oh, hell,” he said, looking at them both. “I forgot to make the damn call.”

Melanie sat down on one of the boxes and fanned herself with a folded piece of paper. She shook her head and seemed about to cry. “I don’t know why you have to call in the first place. There ought to be something here under the sink to turn it on.”

“I’ll run to
the
store and get some bottled water. Ice cold. It’ll only take a minute.”

Melanie said, “You’ll run.”

Ballinger saw them both seem to pause. No one said anything for a moment. “I’ll
drive,”
William said. Then: “Dear.”

She said, “Sorry.”

“I’ll call the water people from the drugstore.” He shuffled out. There was something faintly sheepish about it.

“Close the door,” she said. “The air conditioner’s on.” “I was doing just that, dear.” He limped out.

She stood, sighing, then opened one of the boxes and began putting dishes into the cabinet. Ballinger watched her, feeling dimly frustrated and sorry. There was nothing he could imagine saying to her beyond dull commenting on the hot day, the furniture, the work ahead. “Christ,” she said, “I have to wash these cabinets. I can’t do anything until we get the water going.” She put the dishes back in the box and sat down.

Ballinger leaned against the counter, his hands down on the edges, appreciating the cooler air. “I always hated moving,” he ventured.

“I wonder how Mom’s doing with the baby.” She glanced at him, then ran part of her shirttail over her face, bending low. “It’s been a while since she had one to contend with.”

“She’ll manage,” Ballinger said.

The crown of his daughter’s hair was darker than the rest—a richer, deeper brown. She was a very pretty girl, already a mother. This fact was anything but new to him, yet it had the power of a revelation each time he remembered it. When the baby had arrived, last June, Melanie had asked for her mother to come out and stay for a week. It made more sense, of course: the visit was practical, having to do with the baby’s first days home. Ballinger had spoken with Melanie on the telephone and planned a later trip out, but then Melanie, Mrs. William Coombs, had called to say that she and her husband and baby were moving to Virginia.

Now she said, “I told Mom to come here for dinner. Will you stay? I’d like you to. We’ll order out.”

“I don’t think so, darling.”

She smiled at him. “It was her idea, Daddy.”

There were chairs set upside down around the table, and he picked one up, turned it right, set it down, and straddled the seat, resting his arms on the back, facing her. “How are you, anyway?” he said.

She offered her hand, and he took it. “Fine, thank you,” she said. “And you?”

“Well, I’ve been going through this divorce.”

“So I heard.”

He let go of her hand. “Guess it’s nothing to kid about, is it.”

“Mom seems really happy.” She appeared briefly confused. “I mean, getting to see the baby and all.”

“It’s probably the divorce,” he said. “She
did
say she wanted me to stay here for dinner, huh?”

“Yes. And I didn’t mean anything, Daddy.”

“You mean
it
doesn’t mean anything, her wanting me to stay.”

“I mean I didn’t—I mean that she seemed happy with the baby. I wasn’t saying anything
else,
okay?”

“Well, me,” he said, “I’ve been just giddy all year, you know. I have this nice—uh, room. In the basement of a woman’s house near the school. Walking distance. Woman’s a lonely widow. I think she has designs on me. Looks like a movie star, too.”

“Really.”

“Yeah,” Ballinger said. “Ernest Borgnine. Really strong features, you know.”

She said nothing, gazing at him with a slightly sardonic smile.

“This’ll be a nice place,” he said, looking around the room. “Cozy.”

“Just the three of us.”

He thought he heard something in her voice, a trace of irony. He cleared his throat and went on: “I was awful glad to hear you were moving back home. You can’t imagine how we’ve—how I’ve missed you, kiddo.”

She smiled. “I missed you guys, too.”

They were quiet again.

“He forgets to do things,” she said. “The absent-minded professor. It gets on my nerves sometimes.”

Ballinger kept still.

“There’s no point in denying it,” she said. “And then I end up being”— she paused—”impatient.” She seemed to be waiting for a response, and when none came, she went on: “He can remember the whole of Keats’s ‘Ode to a Nightingale.’ He reminds me of you—a lot, Daddy.”

“A much older version of me.”

“You’re not going to start on
that
shit, are you?”

Ballinger stood. “Well, but do me a favor, darling. Don’t say he reminds you of me. I’ve been married once. To your mother. I loved her so bad it hurt. And then it ran into trouble that neither of us could explain, and it’s gone to pieces, but there was nothing remotely casual about it, you know?”

“Casual? You think William and I are
casual?”

“Please forget I said that, Melanie. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“We’re not casual at all, Daddy. There’s been nothing casual about us, ever.”

“Please,” Ballinger told her, “I just meant that—this—this separation has cost us. Your mother and me. Well, me, all right? It’s cost me. Nothing’s the same. And you sit there and tell me she seems so happy.”

“I was talking about seeing the
baby.
Jesus, Daddy. Do you want me to say she’s miserable without you? I don’t—”

“No, no,” he interrupted. Then: “Wasting away, would be nice.”

She straightened. “For God’s sake. I said she was happy with the baby. I don’t know how she is about the other thing. I just got here from Chicago. She doesn’t talk to me about you. She doesn’t talk to me about herself. As far as I can tell she never talks to
anyone
about herself. I wish you’d quit making jokes.”

“Well, baby,” he said, “that happens to be how I express pain.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” he told her. “That’s my trouble, all right.”

“You know what absolutely drives me up the wall?” She glared at him. “How much like you I really am.”

“Must be awful,” he said. “You do your laundry in the tub, too?”

She seemed about to shout, but then she laughed. “I think you’re both crazy.”

“I guess it’s no good expecting life not to change.” He sat back down.

She said, “Things are exactly the way I expected them to be. I get irritable with William because he’s absent-minded, and there’s times when I’d like to do more than we do—go out more, maybe. See more people. But I do have a baby to think about, and we’d be staying home with her—or I would anyway—even if William were twenty-four. And he’s
home
with us. He’s so taken with her. He wakes her up in the middle of the night just to stare at her.”

“I used to do that with you,” Ballinger said.

“Well,” she said. “See?”

He did not see, quite. But he said nothing.

“I’m happy,” Melanie said. “Really.”

“That’s all we wanted,” Ballinger told her. “Your mother and me.”

“Oh, Daddy, do you think you can ever manage to stop sounding like you’re trying to rationalize your conviction that I’m lost or gone?”

“Happiness
is
all we wanted for you. I don’t know how else to put it. We wanted unmitigated gloom for you?”

She sighed. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“And don’t apologize. Lord, that makes me crazy.”

He said nothing.

“Things are fine,” she said. “Okay?”

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “Really.”

“Why do you have to say
really
like that. Like I’m not going to believe you or something.”

“That isn’t how I said it. I didn’t hear myself say it. Listen, you think you could stop
editing
me for a minute? Because I really find it annoying.”

“Maybe you should listen to yourself more carefully, sometimes.”

“It’s a real fight just hearing everybody
else.”

“Oh, you poor, poor man.”

“Jesus, Melanie. How about giving me the benefit of the doubt, just a little?”

She paused, then shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” But he had spoken too quickly. He added, “Just give me a little slack, okay?”

They were quiet.

“I
am
happy,” she said.

He said, “Good. It’s a God-given right. It’s in the Constitution of the United States.”

“Oh, shut up.” She smiled. It was an offering.

But the silence lasted just long enough for Ballinger to begin feeling the need to say something. He couldn’t think of one thing. She went into the other room and started pulling clothes out of boxes.

William arrived, trying to open the door while holding two paper bags
stuffed with drinks and snacks. He had bought potato chips and dip and soft pretzels, along with three half-gallon bottles of cold mineral water. Ballinger helped him with the bags, and Melanie pulled another chair down from the table. William settled into it, tearing open a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips. “These things kill my stomach,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to resist them.”

Melanie opened one of the containers of French onion dip and the bag of plain potato chips. “Sorry about the onions,” she said to her husband. “Now you won’t want to kiss me.”

Ballinger didn’t feel hungry anymore. He had a bad few minutes of being aware of all the little endearments and words of affection between couples, as though they were all being repeated now—all the terms of intimacy. He tried to empty his mind.

William said, “I’ve heard of the humidity in this part of the country, and I was expecting to feel it. But this is ridiculous. It’s not even noon. What’ll it be like at three o’clock?”

“It’s an average summer day in Virginia,” Melanie said. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”

“Average,” Ballinger got out. Another moment passed, during which he sought for something else to say.

“We sure appreciate your help,” William said, nodding at Ballinger. He put his hands on his knees. “This arthritis—I’ll tell you, old age isn’t for sissies.”

“Stop talking about old age,” Melanie said. “There are lots of people a generation older than you are. And there are people younger than you who have bad knees.”

“So you keep reminding me, dear.” William appeared chagrined.

Ballinger said, “I was just—just telling Melanie how happy her mother and I are that she’s come home—”

“Well, she wanted Carla to know her grandparents.”

“Yes,” Ballinger said, finding himself unable to look at either of them. “That’ll be a nice thing.”

“It’s hard to believe,” William said in what seemed an oddly reverent tone. “Isn’t it.”

Ballinger was at a loss, nearly startled. He looked at the other man, wanting to say,
Yes, this is the god damn most unbelievable thing to me.

William went on: “I remember when my first grandchild came along. A little girl, too. I kept thinking about the child her father was—
still
was—in my mind. This bungling kid who couldn’t get out of his own way. That little boy was a father. It just didn’t seem possible.”

“Well,” Melanie said, rising, “there’s a lot to do.”

They worked together
, unpacking what they could, leaving the dishes since they had no water. They confined their talk to practical matters, with William directing Ballinger as to where certain pieces of furniture should be moved. A little after noon, two young blond men came to hook up the phone lines. They wore overalls and leather belts with tools in them. They could’ve been brothers, though one was blockier, a boy who had done serious weight lifting. William Coombs engaged them in conversation, talking about the heat.

“Yes, sir,” the muscle-bound one said. “Hotter than a firecracker in hell out there. You gonna be living here, sir?”

“My wife and I, yes. And our little baby girl.”

“Little baby girl,” said the smaller one and glanced in the direction of the hallway, where Melanie had gone with a box of framed photographs. Ballinger saw the look he gave his friend. William hadn’t seen it.

Melanie came back through for another box. The muscle-bound phone man watched her, barely pausing in his work—his large hands quickly manipulating the wires in the wall. He followed her with his gaze as she carried another box down the hallway.

William had put his head back, drinking the last of a bottle of water, and again he didn’t see the look the two younger men exchanged.

Ballinger said, “How about concentrating on what you came to do, boys?”

“Sir?” the smaller one said.

William had swallowed the last of the drink and simply stared.

“What’s your problem?” said the big one.
“Sir.”

“Just do what you came to do and get out,” Ballinger told him. “That way, you get to keep your jobs.”

The two phone men accomplished their task and made a sullen exit, and for a time Ballinger and his daughter and son-in-law worked in silence. Finally William cleared his throat and said, “You know, Jack—I wasn’t unaware of their attitude.”

Ballinger gave no answer to this.

“I’m sort of used to how people respond to the situation.”

“They were ogling my daughter.”

“She’s my wife,” William said. “We’re quite used to it—believe me.”

“Okay,” Ballinger said. “Forgive me.”