Slow but steady.
That’s the ticket.
And if a snail’s pace seemed out of character for Bradford Gale, hard-hitting Transcript editor, so what? That’s how he wanted it with Thomasine. That was his speed. Because he wasn’t seventeen anymore. No matter how attracted he was to her (and tonight, flush with wine, he was becoming downright horny), he understood his first allegiance was to Abbie. So far Thomasine had complemented that allegiance. Abbie seemed genuinely to like her, possibly was even beginning to regard her as a mother figure, but Brad knew how that could turn. How ugly and convoluted the situation could get. How quickly all three of them could be confronted with decisions none of them wanted to make.
He wanted slow but steady. He sensed Thomasine did, too.
“More wine?” he asked. He’d noticed her glass was empty.
“Sure,” she said.
Brad poured. “It’s a nice wine,” he commented.
“Thank you.”
Brad read the label: “Hawk Crest 1985. A California Cabernet Sauvignon.”
“Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have looked twice at an American wine,” she said. “If it wasn’t French, it wasn’t chic.”
“And what changed your mind?”
“I broke up with Paul,” she stated flatly. “That opened my eyes to a lot of things, believe me, not just wine.”
It was a slightly awkward moment, and Brad moved to break it by getting up and adding another log to the fire. It sent a stream of sparks up the chimney. He stood for a moment, fiddling with the poker.
That’s when it hit him, standing by the fire, hit him right between the eyes: a full-blown case of a seventeen-year-old’s tingles, light-headedness and all. Thomasine wasn’t beautiful in a strictly classic sense, but she wasn’t exactly a plain Jane either. Her hair, her eyes, her lips, the swell of her breasts under her white sweater, the fullness of her hips—it was his ideal picture of womanhood. All of a sudden she was making him crazy. He’d fantasized about her being naked, but never so vividly as now. He imagined the softness of her belly, the whiteness of the skin beneath her panties, her nipples, rose-colored and enticingly erect. He imagined the taste of her skin, the warmth, the texture, smooth and perfect as polished marble. He imagined kissing her, her breath intoxicating him, pulling him under, pulling them both under, moving them toward—
The wine was having its effect.
He returned to the couch. His hands were actually shaking. They sat, not speaking. The awkwardness of the earlier moment had waned; in its place was a more uncertain mood. A mood equal parts anticipation, hesitation.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Brad said.
“Of course not.”
“Would you be upset if—if I said I wanted to kiss you?”
“No,” she said simply.
“I want to kiss you.”
“I want to kiss you, too.”
He moved toward her, closing that three-inch gap, and their bodies were in contact for the first time. Something passed between them in that instant. Call it a spark, electricity, a jolt. Call it whatever, but it was something they both felt.
His hand brushed her hair, lingered awhile, found her neck.
God, it had been so long. So long. She moved closer, arranging herself beneath him. Their lips touching. The slightly sweet aftertaste of white wine. Her breath with his. Her teeth parting and his tongue encountering hers. His body supercharged. His head light. A seventeen-year-old again, goddamn and hallelujah, drowning in a comber of lust.
Hesitantly at first, then more confidently, he moved his other hand along her side, along the outside of her sweater. Up. Around to the front, to where her breast rose in a perfect arc from her chest. She was not wearing a bra. He let one finger be careless. He let it graze the bottom of her breast. He let it pass lightly over the nipple, straining through the fabric. He let it press her nipple and he waited for a response.
“Mmmm,” she whispered through their kiss.
Now he felt her hand on his pants. He was hard now. They were kissing deeply now, with more and more abandon, forceful kisses, kisses that could still be tasted years and years later. He brought his hand down, slipped it under her sweater, in contact with her stomach. The skin was smooth, as he had imagined. Warm. He moved upward, toward her breast. She was inviting him. She wanted him.
“Daaaad!”
It was not a scream.
It was not loud. It was pitiful, barely audible, but the depth of Abbie’s distress went through Brad like a power drill. He disengaged from Thomasine, almost hurting her, and bounded up the stairs in twos and threes.
He felt the draft before opening her door.
The window was wide open.
This time Abbie was on her bed. Her back to the headboard, clutching her pillow for protection. Her pajamas soaked from her bladder’s letting go.
“Oh, Daddy . . .” she sobbed as he embraced her.
“Shhhhh.”
“The d-d-dinosaur . . .”
“Shhhhh.”
“It s-s-said it’s going to t-t-take me.”
“Shhhhh.”
He smothered her, driving the badness away.
When she was calm, when she was in fresh pajamas and the sheets changed, when she’d had a drink and the window had been closed and locked, they went downstairs. Brad got her settled on the couch, covered her with a blanket, and kissed her. Thomasine kissed her, too. Abbie managed a smile. In a few minutes she was asleep.
“A nightmare,” Thomasine said, concerned.
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“A rhamphorhynchus.”
“A ram-for-what?”
“Rhamphorhynchus. It’s a kind of flying dinosaur. Looks like a vulture.”
“Does she always have nightmares about them?”
“In the last week or two she’s had a couple. I think it’s got something to do with the move. Her new school. I guess her mother, too. All of it. I think it’s all reached a head.”
“But you’ve been out of New York six weeks. She’s been in school almost that long, too.”
“I know,” Brad admitted. “I think it must be like delayed stress syndrome.”
“Maybe tomorrow’s weighing heavily on her.”
“Maybe.”
Tomorrow Abbie was leaving for New York. She was going to visit her mother for the first time since July.
“Is she worried about it?” Thomasine asked.
“No. On the contrary, she seems happy. It’s all she’s been talking about all week.”
“That doesn’t mean inside she isn’t upset.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed.
Brad and Thomasine chatted awhile longer, but the steam had been taken out of the evening. Both of them felt it plainly.
Thomasine took a final sip of wine and stood.
“Well, I guess this is good night,” she said, putting on her coat. Brad was not entirely sorry to see the evening end on this note. Another ten minutes, another half hour on the couch, and it would have been Big Decision time. He wasn’t sure he was ready for Big Decisions like that yet. He had the suspicion Thomasine wasn’t either. Maybe in another month . . . another couple of weeks. Yes, maybe then.
“Sure you have to go?” Brad said. He was not attempting to sway her. His tone reflected that.
“Unfortunately. I have an interview tomorrow. With Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s son, actually.”
“That’s right,” Brad said. “I forgot. He’s half Indian, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Half Quidneck. Anyway, it was a great dinner. A great evening.”
“Let’s do it again sometime,” Brad joked.
“I’d love to.”
They kissed—lightly and chastely—and then Thomasine was out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Saturday, October 11
Morning
Now that the moment of truth was here, Brad wasn’t sure it was such a hot idea.
Abbie t
aking the bus alone to New York for the Columbus Day weekend.
Even if it was nonstop.
Even if the bus driver had promised to take personal care of her. Even if Heather had pledged to greet the bus at the Port Authority.
Even if he had asked a friend in New York to greet it, too, just in case Heather screwed up. He expected her to.
Even if Abbie was looking on it as a big adventure.
Even if living in New York had made her quite mature in certain respects, including riding buses.
But Brad had decided he couldn’t deliver Abbie for every visit.
It wasn’t the drive he minded or the time involved. He could always stay with friends in New York. No, it was seeing Heather. The bus seemed the solution. They had to start somewhere, and it might as well be this visit. That had been Brad’s rationale, and he’d been satisfied it was the best of a bad situation.
Until now.
“You’re sure you don’t mind going alone?” he asked as they sat in the Albany bus station. There were ten minutes until departure.
“Sure,” Abbie said cheerfully.
Brad had bought her a small suitcase, and together they’d packed it. She clutched it beside her now, along with a book bag she’d filled with her favorite Barbie dolls and My Little Ponies. Brad looked at her with her luggage, and the emotion he’d been fighting back all morning welled up within him, cutting off his breath. It was emotion he didn’t have a word for: a bittersweet combination of pride, and sadness, and an underlying fear.
“You could change your mind, you know,” he said shamelessly. “You could—you could go another time.”
“Nah,” Abbie said. “Mommy’s feelings would be hurt.” The innocent irony of the statement made Brad angry. Mommy’s feelings. Well, what about Abbie’s feelings? What the hell about them? It was another reminder of the sheer power of motherhood.
Brad bit his tongue. “I guess they would,” he said.
“Dad?”
“Apple Guy?”
“Is it OK that I want to see Mommy?”
For the second time he clamped down on his tongue. “Of course it is. She’s your mother. The only one you have.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He’d file that one under the white lie category.
“Does Thomasine mind?”
“Why would that matter?”
“Well, because you like her, and you don’t like Mommy too much anymore, so I thought . . . well, I like Thomasine, too, and I wouldn’t want her to be sad.”
“She won’t be sad, honey,” Brad said. “She wants you to do what you want to do.”
“Oh, good. Because I do want to see Mommy. She said we’re going shopping at Macy’s and I can get anything I want!” She was quiet a moment. There were fewer than five minutes until departure. “Dad?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Do you think Mommy wants to see me?”
Try answering that one with a straight face.
“I think so,” Brad said. Sure she does. This week sure. But just wait another week. Wait till the wind changes direction and see whether she wants to see you then.
“Good.”
The loudspeaker interrupted their conversation.
“OK, Apple Guy,” he said, trying to sound brave. “Time to go.”
They embraced—until the driver, a friendly, portly sort who’d refused Brad’s ten-dollar bill, tapped Brad on the shoulder.
“I’ll miss you, Abbie.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Dad. Remember to feed Maria and bring her in when it gets dark. She doesn’t like the dark, you know.”
“I know. I love you, Abbie.”
“I love you, too, Dad. Millions and millions.”
“Don’t forget to have your mother call the second you get off that bus.”
“I won’t.”
“Bye!”
“Bye!”
And then she was gone.
What if I never see her again?
The thought was as terrifying as it was paranoid.
What if the bus crashes, killing everyone aboard?
What if Heather kidnaps her?
What if she’s murdered?
On the drive home he cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Saturday, October 11
Afternoon
Brad stayed within earshot of the phone. He tried writing an editorial Dexter wanted for Monday’s paper but found he couldn’t concentrate. Then he tried reading, with similar results. So he did the only logical thing—he went on a tidying binge. He washed the kitchen and bathroom floors, got caught up on the laundry, cleaned out the vegetable bins in the refrigerator, ran Drano through all the drains, disinfected Maria’s food and water bowls, scrubbed the mildew off the shower tiles.
But no matter how he busied himself, no matter how loud he cranked the stereo up—and he pushed it almost all the way—the house this drizzly mid-October afternoon was very large and very lonely.
By two-fifteen, five minutes after scheduled arrival time, he was worried.
By two-thirty he was absolutely convinced something had gone awry.
By two fifty-five he was contemplating calling his friend in New York.
At three-oh-five just as he was about to dial, the phone rang. He leaped for it.
“Hello?”
“What the hell have you been feeding this kid anyway?”
It was Heather, and she was apeshit. She sounded the way she had so many nights during the final weeks of their marriage: ready to start blowing some fuses. Brad was caught completely off guard. “Is Abbie there?” he asked. “Is she all right?”
“She’s here.”
“Is she all right?”
Heather didn’t reply.
“Damn it, answer me. Is she all right?”
“Why don’t you tell me? She got off that bus looking like she was going to die, her face white as a sheet. And she was in tears. The bus driver said she’d gotten cramps half an hour after leaving Albany. Started moaning and clutching her stomach. Then she started crying. Cried most of the trip. That’s three hours, Jack. The driver didn’t know if it was her appendix or what. He said he almost pulled off the highway to a hospital. So you tell me. Dad. Is she all right?”
“Oh, God.” I knew it, he thought. I never should have let her get on that bus. “What about now. How is she now?”
“She’s stopped crying.”
“What about her stomach?”
“She says it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Does she have a temperature?”
“No.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Mars. I’m calling from Mars, Brad. Surprisingly clear line, isn’t it?”
“Don’t play games with me, Heather. Where are you?”
“My place. Where the hell did you think I would be?”
“Are you going to take her to a doctor?” The venom was rising. “You’d better take her to a doctor. Take her to a doctor right away.”
“On Saturday in New York? Do you know how long the wait would be? Huh! You’re dreaming. You’ve been stuck in the boonies too long, Brad. Lucky for her Dave’s here.”
The name didn’t register immediately. “Who the Christ is Dave?”
“The man I’ve been seeing, that’s who,” she said curtly. “He’s an M.D. I told you that.”
That’s right. She’d told him about David Wang, a young doctor whose parents had left China in ‘49. Brad remembered thinking: Poor slob, to get hooked up with Heather.
“What’s he say?”
“He seems to think it was indigestion. On top of that, she’s probably coming down with a cold. Except for a few sniffles, he says she’s fine now. I hope for your sake he’s right.”
“I want you to watch her carefully all weekend,” Brad ordered.
“Thank you, Brad. Thank you very much for the advice.”
“I want to be called if she gets sick again. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now let me speak to Abbie. And, Heather—”
“Yes, dear?”
“Forget the bus home. I’ll be picking her up.”
Brad expected an argument, but there was none. Whatever points she felt compelled to score were already on the board. The bus had been a grand slam.
“Yes, dear.”
“Noon. Monday. Your place. And I don’t want any shit. No games. Now put my daughter on.”
“Our daughter,” she said before getting off the line. “No court in the world can change that.”
There was a pause and the sounds of muffled voices. Heather had her hand over the phone. Then Abbie came on.
“Hi, Dad.” She sounded tired but not gravely ill.
“Apple Guy! How are you, sweetheart? I heard it was a tough ride.”
“Yeah. But I’m OK now.”
“I’m sorry, hon.”
“Why?”
“For putting you on the bus.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad,” she said. “I just got sick, that’s all. Mommy thinks it was something I ate, but I don’t think so. I think maybe it was just the bus. It was awful bumpy and rocky. You know. Like one of the rides at the fair.”
“The important thing is you’re OK now.”
“Yeah. I thought I was going to throw up, but not anymore.”
She paused. “Dad?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Don’t worry. The bus driver took care of me. He said if I got too sick, he would take me to a hospital. Wasn’t that nice?”
“It sure was. Now listen to me.”
“What?”
He lowered his voice. “Do you want me to come get you? I could leave now and be there in four hours.”
It would be a violation of the court order, there certainly would be a thermonuclear exchange with Heather, but he would do it. For Abbie, he would do it. Because he thought he had a pretty good idea about the origin of Abbie’s sickness, just as he had a pretty good idea about the origin of her nightmares. It must be Heather.
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