Going Back

by Judith Arnold

  “That’s exactly what we’re here to do,” Penelope informed him, examining the upholstery of the couch and then giving Brad a nod of approval.

  Brad’s father sat next to Penelope on the couch, exchanged a meaningful look with her, and echoed her hesitant smile with one of his own. They were acting almost like newlyweds—sending coded messages to each other with their eyes, positioning themselves close to one another, refusing to separate their intertwined hands. Grinning, Brad settled onto one of the chairs and leaned forward expectantly. “Well?” he prompted them.

  Penelope eyed her husband, and he yielded the floor to her with a slight nod. “We know this is going to be hard for you to understand—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Whether or not I understand is irrelevant.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding,” Penelope remarked, causing all three of them to laugh.

  The laughter ebbed, leaving in its wake the sibilant hum of the arctic air conditioning. “We’re getting a divorce,” said Brad’s father.

  At first Brad was positive that he’d heard wrong. Weren’t his parents laughing, grinning, behaving with an affection Brad hadn’t seen between them in ages? Hadn’t they waltzed into his office like two infatuated adolescents? “What do you mean?” he asked warily.

  “He means,” Penelope interjected, “we’re going to get a divorce. We’ve decided that there’s no chance of putting our marriage back together again, so we’re going to legalize what already exists and move on from there.”

  “Move on?” Brad echoed, bewildered. “Move on where?”

  “Your mother doesn’t mean that we’re literally going to move,” Robert explained. “I’ve agreed to let her keep the Park Avenue apartment, given how satisfied I am with my digs at Sutton Place.”

  “His `digs,’“ Penelope repeated with a giggle. “Listen to him talk. He sounds like a hipster.”

  Robert chuckled.

  Brad gaped at his parents. How could they be so lighthearted, so cheerful as they planned to take such a catastrophic step? “Perhaps you ought to think this thing through a little bit more,” he said.

  “Oh, Brad, we have thought it through,” Penelope assured him. “It’s not as if we’re doing anything rash. We’ve been living apart for over a year now. It’s quite enough.”

  “That’s right—it’s quite enough,” Brad argued. “One year apart is enough. It’s time for you to put your marriage back together again.”

  Robert didn’t bother to dignify his son’s claim with a rebuttal. “I know you’re disappointed,” he said. “But your mother and I feel as if an enormous burden has been lifted from our shoulders. Now we’ll be free to find more suitable partners for ourselves.”

  “You’ve already found suitable partners,” Brad argued. “Each other.”

  “No,” Penelope said, reaching for Brad’s hand and folding hers around it. “We’re not right for each other. Perhaps we’ve never been. We’ve always bickered, always been unhappy to some extent.”

  “But—but you loved each other, didn’t you?”

  Brad’s parents exchanged meditative looks. “I suppose we loved each other, yes,” said his mother. “But it was a superficial sort of love—you know, the sort of love a woman feels when she gazes into the eyes of a rich, handsome stranger. It’s fun for a while, but it doesn’t endure.”

  “We’ve never been friends,” Robert added. “We’ve never really felt comfortable with each other. I think it’s fair to say we’re closer to being friends now than we’ve ever been before—simply because we no longer have this dreadful marriage standing in our way.”

  “It’s tiring trying to love someone simply because he’s rich and handsome,” Penelope noted. “The next time I get married, I hope it will be to someone who’s poor and funny-looking. As long as he possesses certain necessary talents, of course.”

  “Of course,” Robert concurred, sharing a private smile with her. “I would like to find an intellectual powerhouse, myself. All my life, I’ve always wanted to be married to an intellectual powerhouse.”

  “But Dad—you’re such a sexist,” Brad protested. “You don’t even think most women should have careers.”

  “I’ve always wished someone would give me a worthy debate on the subject,” Robert remarked. “Someone other than my son, that is. I would love for some firebrand woman to come along and prove me wrong. Now that I’ll be a free man, maybe I’ll find her.”

  Stunned, Brad sank deep into the cushions of his chair and stared at his parents as if they were aliens from another planet. His father with a firebrand feminist? His mother with a funny-looking, poverty-stricken lover? Impossible.

  “You’re upset,” Penelope fretted, squeezing Brad’s hand. “You don’t understand.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” Robert reminded her. “We’ve already established that, haven’t we?”

  “But I’m your son, damn it!” Brad railed. “I’m much more objective than you are, and I’m telling you—you’re an ideal couple. You’ll never find yourselves better spouses. You’re perfectly matched.”

  “Brad.” Penelope tugged at his arm lightly, urging him around in his chair to face her. “Maybe we’re perfectly matched, but we aren’t happy. So what good is perfection? Let us find flawed, utterly unsuitable partners for ourselves. If they make us happy, we’ll accept them, imperfections and all. Wish us happiness.”

  “Of course I wish you happiness,” Brad mumbled. He meant it, too. It vexed him to think that his parents’ happiness depended on their divorcing each other, but he did want them to be happy. He loved them.

  “Good,” Penelope said, bringing the visit to a decisive conclusion. She tossed Robert another brief look, and they both stood. “We shouldn’t take up any more of your time. It’s your first day on the job—you must be swamped with work. But once things are settled at your new house, perhaps you’ll invite us out to see it.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Robert snapped. “I have no interest in visiting New Jersey.” He shuddered, as if saying New Jersey left a foul taste in his mouth.

  Brad accompanied his parents to the door. He kissed his mother, shook his father’s hand, and remained in the doorway, watching as they strolled down the hall to the reception area, presented Cindy with smiles of farewell and disappeared through the outer door. As soon as they were gone, he stepped back into his office and slammed the door shut.

  He knew he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. They were actually going to take that final step, sign the papers and part ways forever. He was heartbroken.

  His intercom buzzed, and he crossed the room to his desk and lifted the phone. “Mr. Torrance,” Cindy said, “I just wanted to remind you that you’ve got a two o’clock appointment with Stuart Pace.”

  Brad glanced at his wristwatch. It read a quarter to two.

  “Is he here already?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Cindy reported. “I just thought I ought to remind you.”

  Cindy was going to be a gem, Brad could tell. If she was sharp enough to have noticed his shellshocked look, and considerate enough to realize he’d need to be warned about an appointment for which he mustn’t be shellshocked, she was going to prove an invaluable assistant. “Thank you, Cindy,” he said before hanging up the phone and preparing for his upcoming meeting.

  There would be time enough that evening to sort through his emotions concerning his parents’ divorce. There would be time enough to think, time enough to grieve over the death of his parents’ marriage. He would return to that empty, strangely barren house of his and wonder why perfection was so hard to attain, and why dreams so rarely came true.

  ***

  DAPHNE WAS twisting off the top of a bottle of ginger ale when she heard the car engine outside. She had already finished a summery supper of cottage cheese and sliced tomatoes, and she’d exchanged her work outfit for a pair of cotton shorts and a tee shirt.

  Even given her light meal and her relative state of und
ress, she felt sticky. The only air conditioner she owned was the window unit pumping away behind the closed door of her bedroom. She had her kitchen and living room windows open, and despite the oppressive evening heat she didn’t mind the lack of air conditioning too much. She liked being able to hear the summer sounds through her open windows—chirping crickets, the distant voices of a group of kids playing street hockey a few blocks away, the isolated caw of a crow or rumble of a car cruising past.

  This car hadn’t cruised past, however. Judging from the sound, she figured it must have steered into her driveway. The engine idled for a moment and then died.

  She wasn’t expecting company. The only person who might drive to her house without warning was Phyllis, and as far as Daphne knew, Phyllis wasn’t in the midst of any crisis that would require an emergency trip to New Jersey. The last Daphne had heard, Jim had moved out of Phyllis’s house without incident and she was eagerly working on a scheme to lasso Brad.

  The ginger ale began to spurt through the half-open cap, and Daphne raced from the table to the sink with the hissing bottle. Leaving it there to overflow, she dried her hands on a towel and tiptoed into the living room to spy on her uninvited visitor through the picture window.

  She saw Brad strolling up the front walk. Although it was after seven o’clock, he had on a navy blue business suit. His tie hung loose around his collar. Even in the waning light she could see that his shirt was wilted and his hair was limp, his eyes were downcast and his lips were set in a grim line.

  She didn’t need any light at all to recognize that, despite his obviously gloomy mood, he was gorgeous. She knew that, however much he was scowling, his eyes were breathtaking in their color and intensity, and that regardless of his weary posture, his shoulders were strong and sturdy.

  She wondered what he was doing at her house. If there was a problem with his house, he could have contacted her at her office. He must have come for personal reasons—and those reasons had better not have anything to do with sex, she thought irately. She’d stated her position on that subject the last time she’d spoken to him, right after the closing a week ago. She wasn’t going to sleep with him again.

  Before he could ring the doorbell, she had the front door open. She glowered at him through the storm-door screen, suffering a strange mixture of resenment and desire as she was seized by a memory of what had happened the last time he’d come to her house. Afraid that she’d say the wrong thing if she spoke, she kept her mouth shut.

  “MayI come in?” he asked.

  A simple enough request. Daphne switched on the porch light to see him more clearly, and decided that he looked too pathetic to pose a threat to her. He certainly didn’t look lustful, in any case. Sighing, she held the door open for him.

  He stepped inside, scanned the unlit living room, and then started toward the kitchen. “Can I have something to drink?” he asked.

  Daphne snorted. “Can you say hello, first, or is that asking too much?”

  He spun around and grinned crookedly. “I’m sorry, Daff. I’ve just had one of the worst days of my life.”

  “And you figured you’d top it off with a visit to me. No, you can’t have something to drink,” she said bluntly.

  His smile faded, and he pulled her into his arms. He hugged her tight, clinging to her as if his life depended on her, and rested his chin against the crown of her head. “My folks are getting a divorce,” he said. “I’m really upset. Please don’t give me a hard time.”

  Daphne took a minute to digest his announcement. “I’m sorry,” she said, less for having given him a hard time than for the news about his parents. Brad had confided in her about his parents ever since he’d first come east. She could imagine how devastated he must be over the finality of their decision. Her own feelings went forgotten as she focused her concern on him and the sorrow he must be feeling. “What do you want to drink? I was just about to get myself some ginger ale.”

  “I’d love some,” Brad said, releasing her and following her into the kitchen.

  Only a little of the soda had leaked out of the bottle. Daphne rinsed the spill down the drain, then filled two glasses with soda and handed one to him. “I’m sorry it’s so hot in here, but—”

  “I like it,” Brad swore as he removed his jacket and draped it over a chair. “I’m sick of air conditioning.”

  “Let’s sit on the back porch,” Daphne suggested, leading him out the kitchen door. They took seats across the glass-topped table from each other, just as they had a couple of months ago—when they’d had their heart-to-heart talk about their frat-party folly eight years ago.

  Brad took a long drink of soda, then lowered his glass to the table and slumped in his seat. “They came to my office and made their announcement this afternoon,” he related, resting his head in his hands and eyeing Daphne dolefully. “I left the office at five, got off the train in Montclair at six, got into my car and sat in traffic for a while, and finally realized that I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to come here. I wanted to be with you.”

  “Lucky for you, I didn’t go out tonight,” she said—as if Brad would have had any reason to doubt that she would be at home. Daphne didn’t go on dates, after all. She didn’t gad about on weekday nights—or weekend nights, for that matter. She was always home, ready for some wonderful man who didn’t love her to come and weep on her shoulder.

  “It was the weirdest thing,” he went on. “It was more than just wanting to come here, Daffy. It was this deep knowledge that I had to come here. There’s no one else I can face this thing with, no one else I can trust to help me see it through.”

  He sounded perplexed, yet there was a certain serenity about him, a comprehension that by her side was where he needed to be. As angry as she was about what had gone wrong between them, about her foolishness in falling in love with Brad and his predictability in failing to fall in love with her, she was touched that he still trusted her, that he still relied on her to comfort him when he was hurting.

  “Tell me what happened,” she said.

  He did. He described his parents’ surprise visit to his office, their cheerful mood and their determination to go through with the divorce. “I just don’t get it,” he groaned. “They’re so perfect.”

  “You always say that,” Daphne interrupted him. “What makes you think they’re perfect?”

  “Well...they mesh so well together,” he struggled to explain. “They’re well matched. They complement each other. When you look at them, you get a sense that they belong together.”

  “But they don’t love each other,” she pointed out.

  “They should,” Brad argued.

  Daphne laughed. “Why should they? Just because their son has some crackpot idea that when people are well matched they ought to be in love? Your parents don’t love each other. They’ve told you they don’t. You’ve simply got to accept it.”

  He stared at her. His gaze seemed to pierce the thick lenses of her glasses, to reach for her and hold her. “But it doesn’t make sense,” he complained quietly.

  “You’ve been in love before,” Daphne said, not bothering to disguise her growing impatience. “You ought to know there’s no law that says love has to make sense.” If love made sense, she added silently, trying to smother a fresh surge of bitterness, she would never have fallen in love with Brad. She would have fallen in love with a nice, safe, funny-looking fellow, possibly someone a bit gangly and a bit awkward, with unmanageable hair and Coke-bottle eyeglasses like hers.

  But love wasn’t sensible, and she’d fallen in love with Brad, instead.

  “I’m not sure I like my new house,” Brad said abruptly.

  Daphne took a moment to absorb his non sequitur. “What don’t you like about it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Brad exhaled and took another long drink of soda. His eyes remained on Daphne, glowing steadily in the descending gloom. “Whenever I’m there, I keep wishing I were here instead.”

  “Here? In m
y house?” At his solemn nod, she chuckled. “What did you have in mind? A swap? I think I’d come out ahead. The assessment on your house—”

  “Daff,” he silenced her. “It’s not the house. It’s you. I miss you. I want to be with you.”

  “You want to sleep with me,” she muttered, spitting out the words just to get them said. She might have been amused by the notion that Brad seemed to view of her as some sort of irresistible sex partner, a femme fatale of exotic amorous skills. But as long as all he wanted from her was sex, she wasn’t inclined to be amused.

  “I do want to make love with you,” he admitted. He raked his fingers restlessly through his hair, then leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Damn,” he said softly.

  His unexpected laughter put her on the defensive. “What?”

  “Something my father said today. He told me that, even though he and my mother were married, they had never really been friends.”

  “And?”

  “And I love you.” Brad seemed astonished by his epiphany, speaking it as if it were a revelation from above. “You’re my friend, and we’re great in bed, and I love you.”

  “No you don’t,” Daphne refuted him. Brad couldn’t possibly love her. He could love his pretty almost-fiancee in Seattle, or Phyllis Dunn, or any other woman as good looking and self-possessed as he himself was. He could love any woman who complemented him and made a good match for him. By no stretch of the imagination did Daphne fit into that category, so he couldn’t possibly love her. “You think of me as a sister,” she accused him.

  “Oh, no, I don’t,” he swore, rising and circling the table to her. “That would be incestuous.” Cupping his hands around her elbows, he pulled her to her feet. Then he kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. “I’m an only child, but as far as I know, brothers don’t kiss sisters like that.”

  “Yes, well...” Daphne fought to catch her breath. Brad’s shatteringly sensual kiss had been an unfair tactic, and she strove to keep her wits about her. “I think you’re confusing love with lust.”