His shirt was torn, with most of the buttons missing, as if he had ripped it to get it off. She had to lean forward to hear him now.
“But hey. What the hey. What the hey, hey, hey!” he said with a dismal sigh. “Tell you the truth, I was bored out of my mind. I had a pretty low number. In the back of my mind I kept thinking, well, any day now they’ll get to me, and I’ll be outta here.”
The orange tip flared in the half-darkness. He grew so quiet and still she was sure he had fallen asleep. She got up and peered down. “Patrick?” she said softly.
“Yeah?” He stared up at her.
“Oh! I thought you fell asleep.”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?” she asked, relieved as she settled back into the chair.
He didn’t answer.
“Were you thinking about the war? It must have been such a shock, you were so young.”
“I was thinking about your face.”
“My face!” she said with a nervous laugh.
“I love to look at it. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you. I guess I look like my mother. Or at least that’s what everyone says.” She winced, wishing she hadn’t said that.
“You’re better-looking.”
“She was very pretty!”
“You’ve got a great body.” He lifted his head to look.
“What was she doing when you came home from Vietnam?” she said in a rush of words.
“Natalie? What she always did, running around like some . . . ” He sat up.
It was the first time she had heard him say her mother’s name. “Were you still going together when you came back?”
“Came back? When’d I come back? From where?”
“From Vietnam. When you came home!”
“Home? Yah, that’s right,” he said, kneading the top of his head with both hands as if it hurt. “I came home. I did, didn’t I? But just for the glory, that’s all. That’s the only reason.” He chuckled. “You gotta have somebody to show your fucking medals to.”
“You must have been proud,” she said, not sure he had understood her question.
“It was all shit, that’s all it was. Shit. Plain and simple. Everybody got a medal. It was the war to award all medals.” He laughed.
“So you were still going out with Natalie then?” Maybe if they both called her Natalie, it would be easier for him.
“I was getting skin grafts, that’s all I was doing.”
She asked how long he was in the hospital.
“A few months,” he said, staring at her.
“And how long were you in Vietnam?”
“The same. A few months.”
“You must have come home though. I mean, you came for a visit before then, right?”
He shook his head, grinning. “People came to see me.”
“Did Natalie?”
“No.” He took another drag.
“Why? Why didn’t she?”
“Why should she? I was nothing to her.” He smiled.
“But she must have been pregnant then.”
“Oh. Well maybe that’s why then.” He chuckled softly to himself.
She didn’t believe him, but she would have to be patient.
The kitchen faucet was dripping. The refrigerator motor shut off, and the drip grew louder. His feet smelled. The few clothes he had were gray and dingy. Money was a problem, and yet he owned all this land, over thirty acres. Outside, the flurries had turned into sleet that was pelting the windows.
She asked what he did when he came home from the hospital.
“Same as now, lay here, smoke a little weed. Get up, go sit in my car, smoke a little weed. Come back in, smoke a little weed.”
“What kind of car’d you have?”
He smiled. “A sixty-five Thunderbird. It was black.”
“Sounds cool.”
“Yeah. I got a picture here someplace.”
“Could I see it? I’d love to see it.”
“Yah, sometime. If I ever find it,” he said with a dismal gesture at all the clutter.
“Do you have any pictures of Natalie?”
“No,” he said, his voice so flat now she was afraid he was angry.
“That always seemed so strange,” she continued quickly, hoping to arouse his sympathy. “Growing up with hardly any pictures of her around. In that whole big house there was only one out. Aunt Arlene said it just made her too sad, but that shouldn’t have mattered. They should have thought about me, about my feelings.”
He didn’t say anything. His eyes were closed. The joint was dead in the ashtray. “Patrick?” she whispered. He was asleep. She brought the lasagna pan into the kitchen, filled it with water, and let it soak on the drainboard while she washed the day’s old dirty dishes. As she scrubbed she kept averting her eyes from the bulging shoebox overhead. When she was done she stacked the dishes in the metal cupboard. She was tempted to organize the shelves, but he would consider it an intrusion. He had lived in this dilapidated house all his life, except for those months in Vietnam and the VA hospital. Thirty years had passed and where had he gone? What had he done? He never even went into Boston anymore. In a very real sense he had stopped living. What had happened to cause such emptiness? So much unhappiness? Had her mother hated him so much that she hated their child as well? “What a bitch she must be. What a cold, self-centered bitch!” she whispered, amazed by the exhilaration of her anger. For years she had fantasized the joyful embrace of her mother’s return, but now that she knew Patrick she realized what a waste those years of yearning had been. No wonder people seldom talked about her mother. No wonder her aunt and uncle squirmed with her relentless questions, their vague replies purposely misleading. Natalie Range was no tragic, romantic figure but an immature, selfish young woman who had not wanted the responsibility of motherhood. She had done exactly what Donna Drouin had said: just dropped out and moved on. But she must have at least wondered about her daughter. Or about Patrick.
She looked back over her shoulder as she slid the shoebox from the shelf. She put it on the table. One letter, a card, a note. Anything. But these were mostly bills, some ten years old, judging by the postmarks on the dingy envelopes. One grease-flecked folder was thick with expired store coupons, warranties for a toaster, a clock radio, receipts for oil deliveries, old tax bills. She was closing the folder when she recognized Uncle Charlie’s handwriting on the back of the envelope from the town assessor’s office. With a nervous glance at the unmoving form on the divan, her cold fingers fumbled at the flap. It was last year’s tax bill, $4,784.00 for Patrick’s house and thirty-four acres of land. Uncle Charlie’s note said: Patrick, Enclosed please find what you need. And if it goes up again next year, then we’ll just take care of it. Don’t worry about it. C.
“What the hell’re you doing?” Patrick demanded from the doorway. He was red-eyed and wincing in the light.
She jammed the folder into the box. “Pictures. I thought maybe there’d be some in here.” She reached up to slide the box back onto the shelf, but he grabbed it.
“There’s no pictures in here!” he said, slamming it onto the table.
“No, I didn’t see any.”
“Next time, ask me!”
“I should have. I’m sorry. I was just leaving. I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I wasn’t asleep. I was watching you.” He stared at her.
“My uncle paid your taxes last year?” she asked, staring back.
“He does every year.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” He was trying not to smile.
“I don’t know.”
“Then you should ask him.”
“Why can’t I ask you?”
“Because it’s a secret,” he said as he came closer. He put his hands on her shoulders. His whiskery cheek brushed hers. “I’m not supposed to say,” he whispered in her ear.
“Why?” she asked, eyes wide with the heat of his breath in her hair.<
br />
“Why do you think?”
She stood very still and tried to pretend his belly wasn’t at her waist, his chest against her breasts, but now with his deep sigh her anger was uncontainable. “Don’t play games with me!” she cried, pushing him away. “Why won’t you answer my questions? Why can’t we talk without this . . . this sick thing happening?” There. She’d finally said what she couldn’t bear to consider. She tried to look away, but there was no hiding it. She felt sick to her stomach.
His mouth opened and closed as he came toward her, his hands groping in air. “I love you,” he finally said bewilderedly. “You know I do. I told you. I love you!” he bellowed with a fierce blow to his chest. “I love you!”
“No! You can’t! Not that way! Jesus Christ, Patrick, you’re my father!”
“No,” he groaned. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. How many times do I have to keep telling you? Why won’t you believe me? Oh God.” He covered his face with his hands. “God, God, God.”
“I’m going to go home now. Don’t smoke any more. I don’t know, maybe you’re just way too stoned. Maybe that’s what happened.” She hurried past him to the front door. “You probably don’t even know what just happened,” she said, opening it.
“I know what happened,” he snarled, his face twisting with contempt. “And you do too.”
She stepped onto the porch and gasped as a gust of icy rain swept over her. Before she could close the door it banged back against the wall. He had her wrist. He was yanking her back inside. He pushed her up against the wall and slammed himself against her.
“Patrick! Patrick, please . . . ,” she managed to cry before his lips closed over hers. She couldn’t move her head. His hands were clamped around her throat, his thumbs pressing up into her jaw, forcing her mouth against his. He grunted. His tongue was making her gag. He drew back slightly, but kept his hands on her neck. He closed his eyes and ground his brow into hers.
“Now that proves it, doesn’t it?” he panted. “Now you know. I’m not your father, and that’s the honest-to-God truth.” One hand fell from her neck and moved slowly down her side, to rest on her thigh. “I love you. You know I do.”
“Patrick, please let me go. I have to go now.” Her throat was so dry she could barely speak.
He stepped back quickly. “Wait!” he called as she darted past him onto the porch. “Do you believe me? Just tell me that.”
She ran to her car and locked the door, but when she pulled onto the road she saw him still on the porch watching.
It wasn’t until she got into town that she could finally breathe. She kept touching her throat. The rain was turning back to snow and the roads were slick. More than injury she felt a deep defilement, a violation of her most vital bond. She thought of Rudy. He would help her. She didn’t understand what had just happened. She drove to Dearborn Memorial and pulled into the parking lot. She stared at the emergency room doors. She couldn’t bring herself to go in. An ambulance idled by the entrance. Every time its dome light flashed red streaks on the wet windshield she winced with her own frightened reflection. She was so much older than her mother had been. She kept remembering what Donna Drouin had said, what she had refused to even think about. Had he done that? Had he hacked off her mother’s hair? Had she run away in terror?
Everyone had warned her, even Rudy. But it wasn’t really Patrick’s fault. In his loneliness he had confused her need and her desire to please him with seduction. He had never wanted to be her father, and now only wanted to be her lover. She felt as culpable as her aunt and uncle, who had also taken advantage of his loneliness. Were Patrick’s job and the payment of his property taxes the price of their guardianship all these years? The annual fee for his denial, for not interfering? They were stronger than he was. They had paid him to stay away. They had forced him into this vile pact. By taking advantage of his vulnerability, they had stripped him of pride and reduced him to bitterness and twisted self-hatred. Alright, you can bring her up, but I need help, he must have said. The price had probably risen over the years, and so in a very real way she had become Patrick’s insurance policy. He couldn’t very well tell her the truth, but he couldn’t help loving her. Her mother’s leaving had probably been subsidized as well. They were probably still paying her to stay away. She started her car and drove home.
The telephone was ringing as she unlocked her door. Certain it was Patrick, she grabbed the receiver.
“Oh! Fiona!” Elizabeth sounded startled. “This was going to be my last try. I’ve been calling you all night.”
“I don’t see any messages,” she said, checking the machine. “You should have just left one.”
“I hate to leave messages. I don’t like talking to a machine.”
“Oh, and everyone else does, right?” she snapped.
Elizabeth paused. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess that is selfish of me, isn’t it? Well, anyway,” she continued with forced perkiness, “Mother’s been after me to call. She thinks something’s wrong because we haven’t been in touch. But I told her it’s the time of year, that’s all. I’ve just been so busy with school and with running, and I know how busy you are.”
“Me? I haven’t been busy. In fact I’ve been bored stiff lately.”
“Oh. Now I really feel guilty. But there’ve been so many night meetings, it seems that’s all I’ve been doing these last few weeks.”
“Oh really? Where do you have those?”
“The meetings?’
“Yah, whatever you call them,” Fiona said, with no effort to hide her disgust.
“At school! Actually, it’s the Thanksgiving pageant that’s been taking up most of the time. But then that’s what happens when you’re low man on the totem pole. You’re not asked. You’re appointed.” She sighed. “But it’s fun! It is. I shouldn’t complain. I love my class. They’re all so cute. Especially the twins—I told you about the twins, didn’t I?”
“Yah, you told me,” she said, yawning. Rudy probably had to listen to this inane crap all the time. And yet it was exactly this simplicity, this natural sense of clarity, that attracted people to Elizabeth. Like fine crystal, she would be handled differently from everyone else, with unquestioning care and appreciation. Her sweet nature made her seem only more delicate. She was the kind of woman other women rolled their eyes at but secretly envied, the kind of woman men were afraid of damaging.
“Well, I won’t keep you. You sound tired,” Elizabeth said.
“I am,” Fiona said.
“You haven’t forgotten about the party Friday, right?” Elizabeth asked, and Fiona said she hadn’t. “Good! Then we’ll have fun!” she said with that shiver of brightness Fiona recognized as dread.
“Is Rudy going?” she asked.
“Yes. Well, he says he is anyway,” Elizabeth said, explaining that at first he didn’t think he could go, but now he’d finally gotten someone to cover for him at the hospital. She almost sounded annoyed at this.
“That’s good. Isn’t it?” she couldn’t resist adding, as she stretched the cord as far as the bathroom mirror.
“Well, anyway,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her, “Mother wondered if you need anything—money, clothes, a ride, whatever.”
“Yes. A date, tell her.” She touched her neck. It still felt sore. Looking closely, she could see only a few red splotches.
Elizabeth laughed. “Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of old judges there. More than enough to go around, I’m afraid.”
“Actually,” Fiona said with a malevolent grin at her reflection, “I’ve decided to ask George.” She paused. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Well, I . . . Well, if you really want to know, I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Why?” Cruel as it was, hearing her cousin twist and turn like this seemed the leveling balance she needed against what had just happened. She kept touching her throat, now her chin where it was most tender.
“I don’t know. It’ll just make me uncomfortable, that’s al
l. There must be any number of people you could ask. You know there are.”
“But why? You still haven’t told me,” she persisted, bristling at Elizabeth’s real meaning: any number of men she’d slept with. “Why would it make you uncomfortable?”
“Well, not just me. Rudy too.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Lizzie. I mean, what does Rudy care if George comes with me? Besides, weren’t you three all together at the Orchard House last week? I mean, all I want is an escort.” She paused. “Someone safe. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?” Listening into the silence, she could feel her cousin’s fierce struggle against tears.
Elizabeth’s small voice came from a great distance. “Why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“Putting me in this position.”
“What do you mean?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I think you know exactly what I mean.” Her voice trembled. “And I’m surprised at you, Fiona. You know I’ve been having a hard time lately. A really hard time, but I’m trying to keep everything together. At least until the holidays are over. And Dad’s judgeship’s announced. And now that Ginny’s pregnant . . . oh, I just want everything to be calm and happy for Mom and Dad. That’s all I want.”
Now Fiona paused. No one had even bothered telling her that Uncle Charles had gotten the judgeship. She wouldn’t let herself be sidetracked. “Well maybe that’s too much for one person to want, Lizzie. Maybe the only thing anyone can really do is make their own happiness. And then everything else will fall into place.”
“If only things were that simple.”
“They can be! But you have to be honest about your feelings, Lizzie. You’re always worrying about everyone else. If you and Rudy are having a hard time, don’t wait, deal with it. Get it out in the open. That should be the most important thing on your mind right now. Forget about the Thanksgiving pageant and all that crap. So what if the holidays are a bust? Who the hell cares! We’re all adults! And what if it isn’t a perfect sunshiney day when they announce the judgeship. So what? And what about Ginny’s baby? So, she’s pregnant; great, but that’s their thing, not yours!”
Fiona Range Page 28
