Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “I made it,” she said before he could look away. “It only looks bad.”

  “Oh. Well. Sure,” he said, taking the plate. “I’ll have to try some then.” He spooned out a soupy serving, then passed the plate to Elizabeth. “Fiona made it.” He tasted it. “Delicious,” he said, then ate the rest while Elizabeth served herself and gave a small portion first to Maggie, who said she hated soup, then to Lucy, who grimaced and shivered with disgust. The pitiful concoction went next to Uncle Charles, then down the opposite side of the table until everyone had some on their plates. Fiona looked around slowly so that each one knew he was being watched. They were all eating. “Very good . . . perfect timing . . . tasty . . . ummh,” they murmured, not to her or one another, but to themselves, quietly, uneasily, so keenly moored did each one feel under her reproachful scrutiny.

  When her uncle finished, he looked up into her stare. “Well!” He patted his belly. “Thanks to Fiona, I don’t think I have room for one thing more,” he said with a weak smile.

  “And we haven’t even had dessert yet,” Susan said, and Jack groaned.

  “Remember now, you all have to take leftovers home.” Aunt Arlene began stacking the soiled dishes being passed to her.

  “And we’ll send a nice dinner home to Grandpa too,” Uncle Charles promised the twins as he took their dishes.

  “And I’ll make up a plate for Patrick,” Fiona said over the rattle of china. “He’s all alone today. He probably didn’t eat a thing.”

  No one said anything.

  “He hasn’t been feeling too good lately. As a matter of fact, he’s in pretty bad shape,” she said, conscious of how loud her voice seemed in the stillness.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” her uncle said.

  “Are you?” she said, irritated by everyone’s discomfort.

  “Come on, Fiona,” Jack chided, shaking his head.

  “What, Jack? You want me to be quiet? You want me to just sit here and listen to all of you? Why? Why can’t I talk about what I want?”

  “No one said you couldn’t, Fiona,” her uncle said with an imploring smile.

  “No, you don’t have to!” she said, then looked around, so stung by their cold eyes she didn’t know what to say for a moment.

  “Well!” her aunt said, looking anxiously around the table. “I know I say it every year, but what I’m most thankful for is that no matter our trials or tribulations we can still be together on this lovely day.”

  “That’s beautiful, Mother. Thank you,” Ginny said, and the others echoed agreement.

  “Well, maybe for you all it’s a lovely day,” Fiona said, angry at the tremor in her voice when she felt so strong. Now Rudy’s leg pressed against hers and stayed there. “But I feel like them,” she said, gesturing to the twins. “You know? A waif? Like, it’s a holiday, so let’s be kind to the less fortunate. I mean, isn’t that what this is?”

  “No!” her uncle declared, his magisterial tone riveting everyone bolt upright in their chairs. “That’s not what this is. This is a family. Everyone at this table. Every one of us. And most especially you.”

  They all stared at her, except Aunt Arlene, who had put down her knife and fork. She sat very still, hands folded in her lap, eyes closed.

  “That’s nice to hear, Uncle Charles, but I’ll tell you the truth. I haven’t felt it in a long time.”

  “Fiona!” Elizabeth gasped.

  Ginny shook her head in disgust.

  Under the table Rudy patted her leg.

  “It’s just that I’m sitting here listening to everyone talk. I mean, you all have each other, and the one person, the one parent I finally have, I can’t say anything about. And it makes me feel like I don’t count. Like nobody wants to hear it.” She looked from her uncle at one end of the table to her aunt at the other. Neither would look at her.

  “But it’s not you, Fiona,” Jack said, surprising her. “It’s him, he’s a difficult person.”

  “I know, but that’s how life goes. Just because he’s difficult, I mean, he’s still my father. It’s not like I had a lot of choice in the matter. And the thing is, it’s not always easy, but we’re trying to become part of each other’s lives. And it hurts that none of you will accept that. You know what I mean?” She looked around again.

  “Well, you make a good point,” Jack conceded.

  “Anyway, it’s been really great. Finally being able to have that kind of a relationship, you know, where you feel so naturally close to someone,” she said, hating the hollowness in her own words. She wasn’t trying to convince them of anything, just inform them. “In fact I’ve even talked him into selling his land, believe it or not. Finally!” she said, her light little laugh of relief directed at her uncle, whose hands remained clenched on the table. “After all these years. And I told him he should take a long trip and see the world. Do you realize that in all the time he’s been back—from Vietnam, that is—that he’s never left Dearborn. Poor man, he’s never been anywhere. Not even for a day. He’s spent almost his whole life in that house.”

  “By his own choice, Fiona,” her uncle said.

  “I don’t know. Some ways it seems like he’s been a prisoner there all these years,” she said, voice rising.

  “Some people need to be home.” Rudy spoke quietly, looking at her. “They don’t want to be anywhere else. Home is all they care about.”

  “Yes, as long as they live in the real world! As long as they’re not using it to hide out,” she said.

  Elizabeth shuddered. Tears leaked down her face. She tried to smile for the twins’ sake, but her mouth only quivered. Aunt Arlene and Ginny hurried to her side. Rudy tried to put his arm around her, but she crumpled forward, sobbing into her hands. Uncle Charles shook his head, glowering at Fiona.

  “Oh for godsakes, Lizzie!” she blurted, so caught up in her explanation that it took a moment to comprehend what was happening. “I didn’t mean you! Will you stop? Will you please just stop? This is so pathetic! How long can you keep this up? Why don’t you just say it? Say what you mean! Tell them! Go ahead! Tell them what’s really wrong.” She paused, conscious of Rudy staring at her. “Do you want me to, Lizzie?” she asked softly.

  “Leave me alone,” Elizabeth groaned.

  “Fiona,” Rudy pleaded, shaking his head.

  “Just leave me alone. Please, please, please,” Elizabeth continued groaning.

  “It’s you she means, Rudy. She can’t even stand to have you touch her.”

  “Fiona!” Uncle Charles demanded. “I think you’d better go now.”

  “Charles!” her aunt cried, and everyone looked away.

  Fiona threw down her napkin and rushed into the kitchen. She was fumbling through the closet for her coat and bag when Rudy came in and asked her not to leave.

  “I have to,” she said over her shoulder. She felt panicky, but strangely exhilarated. And strong. Stronger than she had ever felt before.

  “No, they’re upset. They don’t want you to.”

  She spun around. “Rudy! You’re just like them. You’ve got it all ass-end-to. The thing they don’t want is to be upset. The thing they do want is for me to leave. Peace—that’s all they really want. Well, they can all go to hell!”

  “Calm down, Fiona. Now you just calm down.” He tried to put his arm around her. “We need to talk.”

  “We did before, but we don’t now!” She pulled away, smiling.

  He put both hands on her shoulders. “We still do. You know we do,” he whispered.

  The door pushed open then. Uncle Charles came into the kitchen. She tried to back away, but Rudy didn’t let go. Her uncle’s face soured with disgust. He turned and went back into the dining room.

  “There,” she whispered, still smiling. “Now they can hate me with a clear conscience.” She tried to push past him to the back door. “Let me go. I have to go!”

  “No, Fiona, wait!”

  She grabbed him. “Then com
e with me!”

  “I can’t. I can’t just walk out on her, Fiona. I can’t do that.”

  “You are! You’re just like them. Peace at any price, that’s all you really care about.”

  There were lights on inside Patrick’s house. Tree branches lifted in the cold, sharp wind. A plastic grocery bag tumbled across his rutted front lawn. Soon it would be dark. A thin plume of smoke rose from the narrow chimney. She sat for a moment with the engine running, then pulled into the driveway. There had been no mention of her in Jack’s Thanksgiving toast, and if she had said anything they would have all denied it. Not one of them understood. She parked the car and knocked on the door. The front curtain moved. Patrick opened the door, then walked away. She followed him into the living room, where he sat back down in front of the television. He had been watching a football game. There was an indentation of his head in the matted pillows. He’d probably been lying on the divan for days. She sat down and asked if he’d eaten yet.

  “What do you care?”

  “We could go somewhere and get something to eat.”

  The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and spent, twisted roaches. His scarred boots sat on the coffee table surrounded by empty beer cans and bottles.

  “I don’t like strangers handling my food.” He put his bare feet up on the table.

  “I’ll cook something then,” she said, uneasy now with his legs blocking her way.

  “Because you’re not a stranger, right? So what the hell are you then?”

  “I’ll go see what you’ve got.” She started to get up.

  “No.” He grabbed her arm. “I know what I got. Nothing. That’s what I got. Do you understand?”

  She sat back down and stared at his grimy hand until he lifted it away. His fingernails were rimmed with dirt. His hair hung in greasy strands and his cheeks were black with stubble. Only his scar gleamed, tender and waxen. The front of his shirt was stained.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night,” she began slowly, not wanting to agitate him any more than he already was. “I fell asleep, and then I had to leave first thing this morning. They wanted me there early, you know, to help out and everything. And I was going to bring you a dinner,” she said, conscious of his cold, narrowing eyes. “But then things got a little tense.”

  “Yah, and who the fuck cares!” he said with a savage kick that toppled the coffee table in an explosion of ashes and cans. The boots flew off and bottles rolled across the floor.

  She jumped up. “I better go.”

  “No! Please stay!” he begged, peering up at her. “I’m sorry. Please.” He pulled the table back up. “Please stay. It’s just I’ve been alone too long. I’m a little off kilter here, but I’ll be okay.”

  She eased back down.

  “I almost called you there. You know how many times I drove by? Maybe a hundred. I just kept going around and around. I got all these things to say, and now I can’t remember,” he said, rubbing his eyes so hard his fingers made fleshy popping sounds on the lids. “My head, I got all this shit in my head. It builds up, so when I call, you gotta pick up the phone. I can’t keep it all straight.”

  “Well I’m here, so tell me now.”

  He looked at her and kept nodding. “That’s the thing. I can’t. I can’t even tell you, so you’re thinking one thing and I’m saying something else, so you don’t trust me. It’s so hard. And I can’t help it because I have these, these feelings.” He looked away quickly, staring at the television for a moment. “Shit! I’m way too messed up here, and I know I gotta get it all straight, so you’ll understand, and I’m trying. I am. Believe me, I am. The thing is, I keep feeling so trapped. I gotta get outta here. I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Do what?” She didn’t dare move. She could see and hear and feel his pain. He would finally tell her about himself and her mother.

  He hunched forward and stared down at the floor. He was almost panting. “I don’t know,” he said with such anguish his words seemed less spoken than excreted. “I don’t know how to say it. I can’t! Jesus Christ, I can’t! I want to, but I can’t! I can’t! Not here. Not the way things are.”

  “Why? Why can’t you?” she asked softly.

  “Because no matter what I do here, I lose. I fucking, fucking lose!”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said as he stared at her. “What do you lose?”

  “You.”

  “No. You won’t lose me. Of course you won’t.” She tried to smile, then bit her lip to see his poor face so twisted with misery.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you? You know what I’m talking about, right?” he asked so desperately that she flinched back.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I don’t,” she said.

  “I mean, I love you! I love you so much I can’t do anything! I can’t think straight,” he growled, his tortured face at hers. He squeezed her wrist. “I don’t care about anything anymore. All I want is you. That’s all I want. I don’t care what happens. We won’t say anything. We’ll just go. They’ll never find us. We’ll—”

  In one motion she sprang from the divan to the door, then ran down the walk with his frantic muttering close at her heels.

  He grabbed her arm as she got into her car. “See! That’s why! That’s why we have to get away from here, away from all this shit! So you’ll know! So you’ll understand!” he was shouting.

  She couldn’t close the door, but she had finally managed to get the key into the ignition. She turned the key, then jammed her foot down on the accelerator. He jumped back as the car shot ahead. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” she cried as the car squealed over the lawn. He was running after her barefoot. She turned sharply onto the road, and it wasn’t until his house was no longer in sight that she dared slow down enough to close her door.

  Chapter 20

  The water burned her back. She scrubbed her arms and legs with the washcloth until everything stung. Her doorbell was ringing when she stepped out of the shower. Certain it was Rudy, she groped through the steam for her robe, putting it on as she ran to the door. Now the bell rang in urgent, stabbing bursts. Patrick! Her hand jerked back from the knob. Everyone had warned her, and now it had come to this.

  He was knocking. She heard Mr. Clinch’s door open. “Can I help you, sir?” Mr. Clinch asked.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m looking for my niece.”

  “Uncle Charles! I was in the shower,” she said, opening the door, any relief she felt blunted by his grim stare. Only anger could have brought him here on Thanksgiving night.

  Mr. Clinch disappeared behind his closing door.

  “Can I come in?” Uncle Charles asked, already inside and sitting down. She wanted to take his jacket, but he said he could only stay for a few minutes. Perched on the very edge of the sofa, he sat with hands clasped and elbows tight at his sides as if afraid to touch anything.

  She sat in the opposite chair, clutching the lower half of her robe closed. She offered him a glass of water. She had cider. Or tea; he only drank tea at night.

  “Nothing, thank you.” He wet his lips and swallowed. “Fiona,” he began, then sighed.

  “Uncle Charles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin everyone’s day. I really didn’t.”

  “No, I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “It’s just I’ve been having a hard time lately with some things.” She looked back at him. “With a lot of things.”

  “It’s not just lately though, is it, Fiona? Things have been hard for you for a long, long time, haven’t they?”

  She nodded, even guiltier now with his tone of kindly concern.

  “It hasn’t been easy. I know that.” He sighed. “Believe me, I do. And at times it’s been all I could do to sit by and watch you in so much . . . so much turmoil.” He leaned forward. “Because you’re very, very dear to us, Fiona. To your aunt and me. All we ever wanted was to do the right thing, to do our very best for you.”

  “I know. And I always di
sappoint you, don’t I? No matter what I do.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I’m here because I want to help you.”

  “Well that’s a switch. Last I heard, I was beyond help.”

  “Fiona, please. This is hard enough.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “All I want,” he began in a low, pained voice, “is for you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He looked up and she was shocked to see his eyes bright with tears. He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Oh, Uncle Charles. I’m sorry. It’s this anger. I’m always taking it out on people. I mean, I know it’s not your fault that my mother left and that Patrick’s so screwed up. In my head I know all that. But in here,” she said, fist at her chest, “it’s all such a mess. Nothing makes sense. Nothing feels right. It’s like I always have this feeling I’m in the wrong place at the right time or the right place at the wrong time. Do you know what I mean?” she asked, then laughed before he could reply. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t,” she scoffed, then seeing him wince, added, “I mean, like you and Aunt Arlene, it all comes so naturally, it’s easy for you to do the right thing.” She tried to laugh again. “You can’t help it. You’re both such good people.”