The room remained silent while the two of them studied their son and daughter caught in a carefree day from their past. His gaze returned to Bess and she felt it on her cheek as one feels heat from a nearby fire, while she continued studying the picture.
“Michael, I . . .” Struggling for words, she met his eyes and felt a burning sense of imminence in the admission she was about to make. “I went to visit my mother on Sunday and we had a talk.” She paused but he said nothing. “I told her how difficult it's been seeing you again, and she said that the reason is because you're making me take a second look at myself and my fault in the divorce.”
Still he waited while she clung to her clipboard and willed the words forth.
“I think I owe you an apology, Michael, for turning the kids against you.”
Something changed in his eyes—a quick transport of repressed anger, perhaps. Though he moved not a muscle he seemed more rigid, while his hazel eyes remained steady upon hers.
She looked down at her glove. “I swore I wouldn't do this—mix business with anything personal but it's been bothering me, and today when I saw their picture here I realized that . . . well, that you loved them, too, and how it must have hurt you, losing them.” She met his eyes once more. “I'm sorry, Michael.”
He thought about it for passing seconds before speaking in a low, throaty tone. “I hated you for it, you know.”
She shifted her gaze to the drafting table. “Yes, I know,” she said quietly.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because I felt hurt, and wronged.”
“But that was another matter entirely, what was between us.”
“I know that now.”
They stared at each other until the silence in the room seemed to be compressing them.
“Mother said something else.” Again Michael waited for her to go on while she struggled for courage to do so. “She said that when I went back to college you fell to the bottom of my priority list and that's why you found another woman.” Nothing changed on his face so she asked, “Is that true, Michael?”
“What do you think?”
“I'm asking you.”
“Well, I'm not going to answer. I don't see any point, not at this late date.”
“So it is true.”
He handed her the check. “Thanks for coming, Bess. I really should get down to my office now.”
Her cheeks were hot as she accepted his check and said, “I'm sorry, Michael. I shouldn't have brought it up today. It's not the appropriate time.”
She preceded him into the foyer, where he opened the door for her then changed his mind and held it closed for a moment.
“Why did you bring it up at all, Bess?”
“I don't know. I don't understand myself lately. It seems as if there were so many things between us that were never settled, all these . . . these ugly emotions that kept roiling around inside me. I guess I just need to deal with them once and for all and put them behind me. That's what apologies are all about, right?”
His eyes lit on hers, hard as chips of resin. He nodded stiffly. “All right, fair enough. Apology accepted.”
She didn't smile; she couldn't. Neither could he.
He found her a carpet sample and ushered her out, at a respectable distance, and pushed the elevator button. The door opened instantly, while he was still speaking.
“Thanks for coming.”
She stepped on, turned to offer a conciliatory smile and found him already stalking back into his condo. The elevator door closed and she rode downstairs, wondering if by her apology she'd made things better or worse between them.
Chapter 7
RANDY CURRAN DROPPED INTO a lopsided upholstered rocker and reached into his jacket pocket for his bag of pot. It was almost 11 P.M. and Bernie's mom was out, as usual. She was a cocktail waitress so most nights they had the place to themselves. The radio was tuned to Cities 97 and they were waiting for “The Grateful Dead Hour.” Bernie sat on the floor with an electric guitar on his lap, the amp turned off as he picked along with a Guns N' Roses song. Randy had known Bernie Bertelli since the eighth grade, when he'd moved to town right after his parents got divorced, too. They'd smoked a lot of dope together since then.
Bernie's place was a dump. The floors were crooked, and the walls had a lot of plastic knickknacks hanging on them. The shag carpeting was the color of baby shit and matted worse than the hair of the two old Heinz 57 dogs, Skipper and Bean, who were allowed to do pretty much anything they wanted anywhere in the house. Skipper and Bean were presently stretched out on the davenport, which in its younger days had been upholstered in some cheap nylon plaid but now was covered with a flowered throw with soiled spots the shapes of the dogs at either end. The coffee tables and end tables had screw-on legs and the drapery pleats sagged between all the hooks. Against one wall a pyramid of beer cans reached the ceiling, the top can wedged against the water-stained tile. Bernie's mom had put the top one there herself.
Randy never sat on the davenport, not even when he was high or drunk. He never got that high or that drunk! He always took the green rocker, a decrepit thing that looked as if it had had a stroke, because everything on it sagged to one side. The broken springs in the seat were covered with a folded rag rug to keep them from poking your ass, and the upholstered arms were covered with cigarette burns.
Randy fished out the Ziploc bag and his bat, a miniature pipe big enough for a single hit. Gone were the days of rolling smokes. Who could afford that anymore?
“This shit is getting expensive, man,” he said.
“Yeah, what'd you pay?”
“Sixty bucks.”
“For a quarter?”
Randy rearranged his expression and shrugged.
Bernie whistled. “Better be good shit, man.”
“The best. Lookit here . . .” Randy opened the bag. “Buds.”
Bernie leaned over, took a closer look and said, “Buds . . . wow, how'd you score that?” Everybody knew that buds gave you the most for your money—better than leaves or sticks or seeds. You could pack it tighter and get really loaded off a couple of hits.
Randy packed his pipe, missing the days when he'd tear off a Zigzag paper and roll a joint big enough to pass around. He'd seen a guy one time who could roll one with one hand. He'd practiced it himself at home a few times over a sheet of paper, but he'd dropped more than he'd rolled, so he'd settled for doing it deftly with two hands, which in itself was considered a mark of prowess among pot smokers.
Randy struck a match. The bat held less than a thimbleful. He lit up, took a deep drag and held it in his lungs until they burned. He exhaled, coughed and refilled the bat.
“Want a hit, Bernie?”
Bernie took a turn, coughing, too, while a scent like burning oregano filled the room.
It took two hits before Randy got the rush—the sweet chill that riffled through him and left him with a slow-growing euphoria. Everything became so exquisitely distorted. Bernie looked as though he was on the opposite side of a fishbowl, and the lights on the component set shimmered like a meteor shower that was taking ten years to fall. Someplace in the distance men coughed occasionally but the sound filtered down a long corridor, like shouting through a concrete culvert. The music from the radio became a major sensation that expanded his pores, his hair follicles, his fingers and his ability to perceive.
Words came to him and swirled through his vision as if they had mass and form—graceful, beckoning words.
“I met this girl,” Randy said. “Did I say that already?” Seemed like he'd said it about one hour ago and it had taken till now for the words to drift down, landing on the dog Bean, bouncing off his red fur in slow motion, disturbing him so he rolled over onto his back with his paws up and his eyes closed.
“What girl?”
“Maryann. Some name, huh? . . . Maryann. Who names their kids Maryann anymore?”
“Who's Maryann?”
“Maryann Padgett. I had dinner at her house. Lisa is marrying
her brother.”
On the davenport Bean was snoring and his lip was fluttering. Randy became transfixed by the sight, which took on kaleidoscopic beauty, that dog lip, black on the outside, pink on the inside, flap-flapping in rhythm with his gentle snores.
“She scares the shit out of me.”
“Why?”
“ 'Cause she's a good girl.”
Thirst came, exaggerated like everything else. “Hey, Bern, I got the dry mouth. You got some beer?”
The beer tasted like magic elixir, every sip a thousand times better than orgasm.
“We don't mess with good girls, do we, Bern?”
“Shit no, man . . . why should we?”
“Screw 'em and strew 'em, hey, Bern?”
“That's right. . . .” Two minutes later Bernie repeated, “That's right.”
Ten minutes after that Bernie said, “Shit, man, I'm really fucked up.”
“Me too,” Randy said. “I'm so fucked up your nose even looks good. You got a nose like a goddamned anteater and I'm so fucked up your nose looks cute.”
Bernie laughed and scattered sound down a jeweled corridor.
Many minutes later Randy said, “You can't get serious about girls, you know what I mean, man? I mean . . . hell . . . next thing you know you're marryin' 'em and you got kids and you're screwin' somebody else's old lady and walkin' out and your kids are bawlin'.”
Bernie digested that a long time before he asked, “You bawl when your old man left?”
“Sometimes. Not where anybody could see me, though.”
“Yeah, me too.”
A while later Randy felt the lethargy lifting and the munchies coming on. He pitched forward in his chair and counted seven beer cans around him. He belched and Bean woke up, stretched and quivered, jumped off the couch and shook a fresh layer of dog hair onto the matted carpet. Pretty soon Skipper did the same. The two of them nosed at Bernie, whose eyes were as red as if he'd been fighting fires.
Randy gave himself some time, coming down. It was after midnight and the deadhead hour was in progress on Cities 97 and he had to be up at six. Actually, he was getting pretty tired of the Grateful Dead and of that stinking job at the warehouse. And of this pigsty of Bernie's and of the rising cost of marijuana. And of Bernie, who never could afford to buy his own. What the hell was he doing here in this lopsided rocking chair with the cigarette burns on its arms, looking at Bernie's big nose and counting the beer cans?
Who was he getting even with?
His father, that's who.
Problem was, the old man didn't really give a damn.
* * *
Bess received the floor plan from Michael on the Monday after she'd seen his condo. He'd mailed it, along with a note in his familiar handwriting, on a piece of notepaper with his company logo in blue at the top.
Bess, Here's the floor plan for the condo, as promised. I've thought about the mirrors for the gallery. Go ahead and plan them in. I think I'll like them. I've been thinking about what you said just before you left and it makes me realize there were areas where I needed to change and didn't. Maybe we can talk about it some more. It was nice seeing you again. Michael.
* * *
She got a queer flutter at the sight of his handwriting. Funny about a thing like that, it was like studying his wet toothbrush and his damp towel, things he'd touched, held, worked with. She reread the entire message four times, imagining his beautifully shaped hand holding the pen as he wrote it. Maybe we can talk about it some more. Now that was a loaded suggestion, was it not? And had it really been nice for him, seeing her again? Didn't he feel the same tension she felt whenever they stood in the same room? Didn't he feel eager to escape, as she did?
* * *
Michael received a call from Lisa.
“Hey, Dad, how's it going?”
“All right. How's it going with you?”
“Busy. Cripes, I didn't dream there was this much stuff you had to do to plan a wedding. You free on Saturday afternoon?”
“I can be.”
“Good, 'cause you men have to meet at Gingiss Formal Wear and pick out your tuxedos.”
“Tuxedos, wow.”
“You're gonna be a knockout, Dad.”
Michael smiled. “You think so, huh? What time and where?”
“Two o'clock at Maplewood.”
“I'll be there.”
* * *
Randy hadn't thought about his dad being there. He walked into Gingiss Formal Wear at two o'clock the following Saturday afternoon, and there stood Michael, talking with Mark and Jake Padgett. Randy came up short. Mark spied him and came forward, extending his hand. “Here's our last guy. Hey, Randy, thanks for coming.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Jake shook his hand. “Hello, Randy.”
“Mr. Padgett.”
That left only Michael, who offered his hand, too. “Randy.”
Randy looked into his father's somber eyes and felt a sick longing to go into his arms and hug him and say, “Hi, Dad.” But he had not called Michael Dad in a long time. The word welled up and seemed to fill his throat, needing to be spoken, needing to be repressed. Michael's eyes so resembled his own it seemed like looking in a mirror while his father's hand waited.
At last he put his hand in Michael's and said, “Hello.”
Michael flushed and gripped Randy's hand hard. Long after the contact ended Randy felt the imprint of his father's palm on his own.
A young blond clerk intruded. “Everybody here now, gentlemen? If you'll step this way.”
They followed him into a rear room, carpeted and mirrored. Mark and his father went first, leaving Michael and Randy to exchange uncertain glances before Michael politely waved Randy through the doorway before him. The room held tuxedos in every conceivable color from black to pink, and smelled of a hot iron from a tailor's adjacent workroom. The clerk told Mark, “Sometimes the bride is in on this, too. Since yours isn't, I presume you've talked about colors.”
“The bridesmaid's dress is coral. She said I could decide what color the tuxes should be.”
“Ah, good. Then might I suggest ivory with coral cummerbunds—ivory is always tasteful, always elegant, and seems to be the trendy choice right now. We have several styles, the most popular are probably the Christian Dior and After Six.”
The clerk prattled on while Michael and Randy remained intensely aware of each other, electrified by their encounter. With their emotions in turmoil they missed much of what was being said. They assessed jackets with satin lapels, pleated shirts, bow ties, cummerbunds and patent-leather shoes.
They removed their jackets, faced a wall of mirrors and had their measurements taken—neck, sleeve, chest, overarm, waist and outseam. They shucked off their pants and donned trousers with satin stripes up the sides, stood stocking-footed before a wall of mirrors and zipped up their flies, trading glances in the mirror before looking discreetly away.
They buttoned on pleated shirts, ruffled shirts, experimented with bow ties and thought about when they were a boy and a young father and Randy had put shaving cream on his face and shaved with a bladeless razor while his dad stood beside him and shaved with a real one; and times when they'd stood side-by-side and Randy had asked, wishfully, “Do you think I'll ever be taller than you, Dad?” And now he was, by a good inch—all grown up and capable of holding grudges.
“A forty-two long, sir,” the clerk said. Michael slipped into a tuxedo jacket that smelled of dry-cleaning fluid, tugged the sleeves and collar into place while the clerk circled him, assessing the fit. Mark made some joke and Randy laughed. Jake said, “Never been in one of these monkey suits before, how 'bout you, Michael?”
“Just once.” At his own wedding.
When the fitting was done they put on their street clothes again, zipping winter jackets as they shuffled from the store into the mall. Saturday shoppers moved past in twos and threes. The smell of baking cookies drifted through the hall from Mrs. Field's across the way. Mark and
Jake headed straight toward the exit, leaving Michael and Randy to follow. Every step of the way Michael felt his chest contract as his chance slipped away. A question danced on his tongue while he feared Randy's rebuff.
Just before they reached the plate-glass doors, Michael spoke. “Listen, I haven't had lunch yet, have you?” He strove for an offhand tone in spite of the fact that his heart was in his throat.
“Yeah, I grabbed a burger earlier,” Randy lied.
“You sure? I'm buying.”
For a moment their gazes locked. Hope took on new meaning as Michael sensed Randy vacillating about changing his mind.
“No thanks. I'm meeting some friends.”
Michael gave away none of the crushing disappointment he felt. “Well, maybe some other time.”
“Yeah, sure . . .”
The gravity remained in both of them, exerting a force that distorted their heartbeats. But six years is a long time and some sins go beyond forgiving. So they left the shopping center by separate doors, went their separate ways and clung to their separate hurts.
* * *
Like a penitent toward Mecca, Randy drove straight into downtown Stillwater to his mother's store. He had no meeting with friends. He quite nearly had no friends. He had only a deep need to be in his mother's presence after dashing aside his father's halting offer of conciliation.
Heather was at the counter when he walked in, and there were customers browsing.
“Hi, Heather, is Mom here?”
“Up here, darlin',” Bess called. “Come on up.”
He shuffled upstairs, dipping his head to avoid bumping the ceiling when he reached the top, and found her among the jumble that looked capable of eating her alive.
“Well, this is a surprise.” She swiveled to face him, sitting in a wooden captain's chair with her legs crossed and a black high heel dangling from her toes.
He scratched his head. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
She studied him more closely. “Is something wrong?”
He shrugged.
She bent forward and began thrusting books aside, flopping heavy binders of fabric samples off the top of a heap, eventually unearthing a chair of sorts.