Another Eden

by Patricia Gaffney

  “I’ll write to you,” he repeated, stiff-lipped.

  “I mean it, Alex. It won’t make any difference.”

  His fury came flooding back all at once, hot and explosive. “You and Michael have a merry Christmas, Sara,” he all but snarled, and cradled the earpiece with a bang.

  Sara jumped in sick surprise. She hung up and hugged herself, pushing back in her chair, ice-cold. What have I done? The shallow, round trumpet of the mouthpiece stared back at her like a huge black eye, mute and accusing. In a panic, she tried to call up all the causes and motives and justifications she’d been using to explain her actions to herself and, without success, to Alex. Like balky soldiers, they were hard to muster; she sensed mutiny in their surly reluctance to assemble.

  Michael was chief among them, of course, as he had been all his life, the compelling influence and prime mover behind most of her conscious choices. His father’s death had shattered him, fracturing the already tentative illusion of control he had over his life’s circumstances. Since the accident he’d withdrawn even further into himself, in spite of everything Sara could think of to do for him, and his nights had been hellish ordeals riddled with dreams of terror and abandonment that left them both limp and demoralized. It was only in the last couple of weeks that he’d begun to show signs of recovery, a new independence she both welcomed and regretted, for she had needed his constant and comforting presence, especially in the early days, very nearly as much as he’d needed hers. But he was far from whole, he was still in deep mourning, and it was unconscionable to consider uprooting him in the midst of his grieving so that she could go off to California to be with her lover. The fact that she’d been strongly tempted to do it anyway increased her feeling of repugnance at the very idea. And even apart from feelings, his or hers, such an impulsive act would inevitably start tongues wagging, possibly ignite a scandal. Although she honestly didn’t care about social consequences for herself anymore, she couldn’t shirk the responsibility she had to protect Michael, who was too young to protect himself.

  That was two reasons. She had others. Although she wasn’t in “mourning,” she was still in something—shock, possibly—from Ben’s death. He hadn’t been a monster, he’d been a man; with more flaws than virtues, perhaps, but still a man. She’d cast her lot with him for better or worse, and one didn’t get over eight years of marriage in two months unless one was impossibly shallow. Or so it seemed to Sara.

  Guilt, of course, played a part. If she hadn’t actually wished Ben dead, she’d certainly wished him gone enough times over the years, and now he was. No matter that it was patently, blatantly irrational: she couldn’t help feeling culpable.

  But her strongest reason was the most irrational of all, which was not consoling and explained why she’d been careful not to mention it to Alex. It was simply the conviction that happiness wasn’t really possible, not for her. She was unfortunately not among the lucky ones fated to find contentment in their lives. Healthy or not, she’d had that feeling for as long as she could remember; it wasn’t reasonable to think she could escape it, just slip out of it cleanly now that circumstances appeared to have changed. She didn’t trust appearances. One had to proceed along life’s road with extreme caution because it was pitted with traps and unexpected catastrophes waiting for the blithe and unwary. And what looked like salvation usually turned out to be the deepest trap of all.

  Besides, there was something unseemly about losing Ben and going immediately to Alex. The convenience and tidiness of the situation had a kind of cheapness that offended her perhaps overly refined sensibilities. She had been Ben’s wife. She’d cheated on him once; she owed him a measure of fidelity now to make up for it.

  There they were then, her reasons, in all their murky splendor. “Half-baked,” Alex called them, and “nonsensical.” Fine. That wasn’t what bothered her about them. Something else nagged at the back of her mind, a lesson being communicated in an obscure intonation, sotto voce, vaguely taunting. She pushed the telephone away, straightened her pen set, lined up the corners of the envelopes in her correspondence holder—all to create a diverting background noise. But the voice wouldn’t be silenced, and finally she heard its scornful message. Her reasons were impressive in their range and ingenuity, and especially their selfless and high-minded tone, the voice said, but they all had one thing in common— cowardice. She put her forehead on the edge of her desk and wept.

  Michael found her that way a few minutes later. He’d been practicing “Silent Night” in the music room for the last half hour, in preparation for the private piano recital he was to give her after dinner tonight; the music had stopped a few minutes ago, she realized now—which ought to have alerted her to his imminent presence, but it hadn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in her own wretchedness. She jerked upright when he put his small hand on her back and patted it gently. It was hopeless to try to disguise the ravages of her tears, but she did anyway, blotting her bloodshot eyes with her handkerchief. “Hello, sweetheart,” she managed thickly.

  “Are you crying because of Daddy?” She shook her head with a wan smile.

  “Then it must be because of Mr. McKie.” That sobered her. She stared at him, aghast.

  “Do you like him more than you liked Daddy?” She reached out to smooth back his hair, then straighten his collar, dithering. They never lied to each other. But how could she answer?

  “I miss seeing him.”

  “Who, darling?” she asked, confused.

  “Mr. McKie. He doesn’t come to see me anymore.”

  “No, I know. He’s going away.” Michael looked stricken.

  “Where?”

  “To California. He was going before, remember?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “He has a new job. He’s going now. Tonight.” She looked at her watch; a fresh wave of misery rolled over her.

  “On the train?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we go and say good-bye?”

  “It’s better, I think, if we don’t.” Michael turned his head, but not before she saw the splash of tears on his cheeks.

  “Will he come back?”

  She shrugged, not trusting her voice.

  “If he doesn’t come back, I can never give him his Christmas present. Please can’t we go and see him? Now, at the station? Please, Mummy?”

  She shook her head miserably.

  Michael brought his skinny, bunched-up fist down on top of her desk with an ear-splitting crash, toppling a vase of paper flowers and half a dozen picture frames. “Damnation!” he shouted, causing her to jump in astonishment. “Why can’t we? Why?” When she didn’t answer, he kicked the edge of her desk twice, hard. “You never say why!” he raged, and ran from the room.

  She was so surprised, she almost went after him. Tantrums were as foreign to him as they were to her, and she wanted to see more of this new Michael. She wanted to know if this novel reaction was an aberration or a harbinger of things to come. She wanted to know whether she ought to feel worried or hugely relieved.

  But she let him go, out of respect for his privacy. They would talk later. A deep, pervasive sorrow crept through her, making her ache, compounded by a loneliness so intense it was nearly intolerable. Why was she enduring this pain? She could say one word and put an end to her suffering, Michael’s, and Alex’s. Was Alex right—was she being an idiot? She felt as if she were treading a thin line between black and white, darkness and light. Always she had chosen the dark, repeatedly, every time but once. She’d believed it her duty, her personal moral imperative to do so. But whom would she hurt now by choosing the light? Her “duty” was making the two people she loved most in the world miserably unhappy.

  She heard a thump and turned to see Michael maneuvering a very large and ungainly wooden object through the door to her study. He set it down on her desk without ceremony, knocking over more picture frames, her pencil jar, and her ink bottle, fortunately closed, in the process. “What is it?” she asked. A natural que
stion, she’d have thought, but Michael took umbrage.

  “Well, it’s a pointed horseshoe arch,” he huffed, his tone adding the “What do you think?” without saying it. “They built mosques with it in Cairo in the eight hundreds.”

  “Of course,” she said feebly.

  “It’s Alex’s present and I want to take it to him.”

  She looked helplessly at the pointed horseshoe arch, which bore, she thought, an uncanny resemblance to a colossal set of false teeth, stained brown. She looked at Michael. Slowly his expression of arrogant defiance—a new look, and absolutely fascinating to her—changed, softening to the sweet, gracious, tenderhearted lines she knew so well and loved so dearly. He stepped closer, put his hand on her neck. She reciprocated. Gray-blue eyes looked into gray-blue eyes. A message passed between them. Either could have vocalized it, but it was Michael who said first, “I love him too, you know.” Then, “Can’t we go see him, Mum?”

  Sara felt humbled and exalted. “I didn’t know,” she confessed readily. “I should have. I just didn’t realize.” She kissed him and stood up. “We’ll go and say good-bye. Did you know it’s snowing? He’ll be glad to see us.” Michael, she could tell, understood the non sequitur perfectly. “Give me a minute to splash some water on my face.” And fix her hair. “You call Mr. O’Shea and tell him to bring the carriage round right now, immediately, Tell him I said it’s an emergency. Do you know the number?”

  “Sure. Eight-oh-one-one?” he asked to be sure, beaming.

  “Right. Then put your coat on and meet me at the front door. Okay?”

  “Okay! Can I take my arch?”

  “Well, of course. Alex can’t go off to California without his arch.” They hugged quickly, intensely, and then she flew out the door.

  Twenty-two

  “WHICH ONE IS IT, MUM?”

  Sara scanned the list of arrivals and departures printed in yellow chalk on the long double blackboard. “I don’t see it,” she muttered, biting her lips. “It’s not here.” She turned, searching the cavernous station for the information kiosk. All but two ticket counters were closed, and most of the people waiting on the shiny wooden benches were late commuters bound for home in Yonkers or White Plains or New Rochelle. The echoing station was ill-lit and slightly smoky; a burnt, vaguely electrical smell mingled with the odors of coffee, overcooked pork, and disinfectant. Efforts to brighten the concourse with Christmas greenery had been defeated by the sheer immensity of the place, and the results were halfhearted and stingy-looking.

  Sara spied the information booth under the huge clock across the way and pointed. “We’ll ask that man there.”

  Even carrying his pointed horseshoe arch, Michael was faster than she was, his hasty steps loud on the worn marble floor. But when he got to the desk, he forgot how to put the question.

  “Where’s the train leaving right now for San Francisco?” asked his mother.

  A bald clerk in striped shirtsleeves and celebratory red bow tie smiled with infuriating calm. “There ain’t one.”

  “There has to be!”

  “Nope. Got one pulling out in a minute or two for Newark, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Toledo, and Chicago.”

  “No—”

  “Got one leaving in twelve minutes for Atlanta via Washington, Roanoke, and Asheville. One just left for Boston by way of Hartford—”

  “Chicago!” Sara guessed frantically. “He’ll probably change there. Is anything else going west right now?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He pushed his green visor back on his hairless head and thought, while Sara squeezed her hands together and Michael spun around in a frustrated circle. “Got a nonstop to St. Louis leaving in—” he squinted up at the great clock over his head—“four and a half minutes. Track 9.”

  “St. Louis,” she breathed.

  “Which one is it, Mum, which one? Hurry!”

  It could be either, she realized, panicked. “Which track does the train to Chicago leave from?” she asked ungrammatically.

  “Number four.” He pointed behind her.

  Number four was closer. “It’s that one,” she told Michael positively. It had to be.

  The clerk called out after them, “You’ll never make it, it’s leaving now!” They kept running.

  “Tickets?”

  They braked to a halt at the turnstyle leading to the outdoor platform and Track 4. “We’re seeing someone off,” Sara explained hastily.

  “Everyone’s on board, the train’s leaving, ma’am,” said the sad-faced ticket collector.

  “Please!” she cried. Michael looked ready to scream.

  “Well, go ahead, then, but the train’s leaving.”

  They rushed out onto the cold, snowy platform. “Look in the windows,” Sara instructed. They sped along sideways, peering up at the high, brown, steel-sided train. The first cars were baggage cars and curtained sleeping compartments. Michael set his arch on the ground and started running, and Sara trotted fast to keep up in her high-heeled shoes. From up ahead someone yelled, “Board!” A whistle blew.

  “Alex!” shouted Michael, leaping up and down and pointing at the window of the third lounge car. “Alex! Hi! Hi!” He turned to Sara as she reached him, panting, “He can’t see me!”

  “Oh, lord.” She stood on tiptoe and rapped her knuckles against the glass. But there was too much train noise—he couldn’t hear her. “Alex!” she and Michael screamed in unison. He was facing away, gazing across the car. At last the woman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said something, pointing. He turned—saw them grinning up at him. His beloved face lit up in delight, and Sara started to cry.

  He jumped up, squeezed out of his seat, and pointed to the door behind him. They nodded, hurrying back down the platform to wait for him. He threw open the sliding steel inner door and rushed down the two steep steps to the platform. Michael yelled, “Alex!” and hurled himself at him. Alex swept him up in a jubilant bear hug. Uncertain, Sara hesitated for a second, then threw her arms around both of them.

  They stood that way, thumping each other’s shoulders and pressing their faces together, laughing and sniffling, until Michael squirmed down and ran off.

  “Where’s he going?”

  “To get your present.” She stepped back into his embrace with teary alacrity. “You were right, I was an idiot.”

  “No, no,” he said gallantly.

  “Yes, I was. God, you smell good. I wish you weren’t going. Stay and have Christmas with us.

  His arms around her tightened; he closed his eyes. “I wish I could.”

  “Oh, if only I’d done this sooner!” she wailed.

  “What made you change your mind?” He smiled down at her with great tenderness, his fingers warming her cold cheek.

  “Michael. I love you, Alex. And Michael does, too. And it doesn’t take anything away from the feelings he had for his father. I hadn’t understood that. Stupid of me—I should’ve known.”

  “I didn’t have time to wrap it,” Michael cried breathlessly, rushing up and setting the awkward wooden contraption at Alex’s feet. Sara kneaded her fingers nervously, trying to catch Alex’s eye so she could mouth the name of the gift over Michael’s head. But Alex squatted down in front of it without looking at her.

  “Well, well, look at this!” he exclaimed, with what Sara considered commendable, even award-winning enthusiasm.

  “Can you tell what it is?” Michael prodded.

  “Let’s see.” He turned it this way and that, narrowing his eyes. Sara cleared her throat, but to no avail; he wouldn’t look up. “Looks like an arch to me. A pointed arch. Pointed horseshoe arch.”

  Michael crowed. Sara’s jaw dropped.

  “Board!”

  Alex stood up, grimacing.

  Michael grabbed his wrist. “Will you come back?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Can we come and see you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so too,” Sara echoed, misty-eyed. She wanted to ki
ss him so badly.

  Whistles blew at either end of the platform.

  “Come soon,” Alex said, reaching for Sara’s hand. She nodded, squeezing back. “Michael, what do you think of the idea of your mother and me getting married?”

  Sara went poker-stiff, but Michael grinned and looked down at his feet. “I think it’s a good idea,” he mumbled, shy.

  Alex coaxed his head up with one gentle finger under his chin. “You sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “Great. Thanks, pal.”

  What astonished her was how casually Michael had accepted it—almost as if the idea wasn’t even new to him. “What about me?” she thought to ask. “Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I think?” Whistles shrilled again, angry and impatient. “I accept!” she clarified hastily.

  Laughing, Alex hugged Michael, then Sara. He gave her a quick kiss. She tried to hold on, but he muttered, “Gotta go,” along with a soft, explicit curse. Scooping up his present, he turned and got on the train. A deafening blast of steam sounded from the engine; far up ahead, a flagman waved a red lantern. The train jolted once and glided away.

  They all waved. Alex yelled something. Sara cupped her ear. “What?” He shouted again.

  Michael said wonderingly, “He says come now.”

  “What?”

  Alex jumped to the pavement again and sprinted toward them, laughing. “Come with me now. Come on.”

  “Yes!” shrieked Michael, leaping up and down on his tiptoes. “Yes! Can we? Can we?”

  Sara stared at them as if they’d both gone berserk.

  “Come on,” grinned Alex. “Let’s go.” He started walking backwards, one arm stretched out invitingly. Michael followed, beside himself.

  “But—Mr. O’Shea’s waiting outside with the carriage.”

  They sent her pitying glances. “Well call from Newark and straighten it all out,” Alex said kindly. The train was picking up speed.

  “All your presents, Michael—you won’t get any!”

  He looked incredulous, one hand on his hip. “Well, I don’t care about that!”