by Sue Miller
She watched him as he subsided. Their eyes met. There must have been something quizzical in her smile now, because he shut his eyes, turning his head as Asa had, making Asa's noise. He was explaining himself in pantomime, she realized—explaining the joke. His hand waved in front of his own face imitating the milk, her spurting milk as it landed on Asa.
Meri laughed. It was funny. Asa had been funny, in his piggy, grunting gluttony, with the little raspberry noise he had made, his tongue sticking out. She looked down at him now. She lifted her hand to wipe the whitish liquid from the intricate whorls of his tiny ears.
By the time Delia's car pulled into the driveway, Asa had finished on the first side and Meri had him on her shoulder, burping him.
“Dhelia,” said Tom. His voice was warm—excited, Meri would have said.
“Yup,” Meri said. “She's home.” She smiled at him and he smiled back, the small, self-mocking smile that he'd had when he was whole. His hand rose to his face, to his mouth, and he lifted his finger to his lips. Shh.
But then the hand kept moving, up to his eyes. He rubbed them briefly, as though he was fatigued. Meri wasn't sure, she couldn't have sworn that he intended the gesture she thought she'd seen him make along the way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Delia, July 9, 1994
EVAN WAS COMING TO VISIT, arriving any moment. He was coming because Nancy had asked him to. She couldn't take the time off from work to come east again herself, she told Delia, so she wanted him to “check on things.”
Delia was waiting at the train station. It was hot. She was standing in the shadow of the building on the platform.
She and Evan were to have lunch together on the way home, and then he'd stay overnight, casting a critical eye on her arrangements, his assigned task. She'd asked Matt to come over to be with Tom today until they got home. She'd promised him time and a half—it was, after all, a Saturday.
Evan dropped down off the train in a single graceful motion. He was carrying only a small case. His face opened to see her, and she was startled by the strength, the power of his embrace.
“You are almost unbearably handsome,” she said, stepping back from him, looking up into his pale, amused eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “You must be utterly impossible to live with.”
“I am,” he assured her, grinning.
And perhaps this was true. He'd had a messy divorce from his first wife, the mother of his kids, in part because he'd begun a relationship with his second wife before the marriage ended. Delia thought she'd gotten the sense of a tremor or two now in the second marriage, but she wasn't sure.
When Evan saw the damaged car, he asked what had happened to it. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She said the other driver had run the light. They commiserated.
As they drove, he told her he'd mostly come to see her, but also because, as he put it, “I want to get Nancy off everyone's back.” They talked about Nancy, about how angry she was over all this.
“Well, she has a right to be, I suppose,” Delia said. “I did pretty much lie to her about it.”
“I bet Nan's the kind of person a lot of people pretty much lie to, just to make their lives easier,” he said.
“Poor Nan,” Delia said. “I'm sure you're right.” They were quiet a moment. She said, “Well, at least I don't lie to myself.”
“No?” he said.
She looked over at him. He was smiling at her, fondly, she thought.
They talked about the heat. It was much worse in New York, he told her. “The whole city has that overriding stench of things rotting that it gets when it's this hot.”
They stopped for lunch at the restaurant in the old mill just outside of town. It was dark as you entered it, but the back was full of light. It had been opened up and glassed in. It looked out across the dam and the water rushing over it—this was why people came.
There was no air-conditioning, but all the windows were open back here, and there was a breeze off the spilling water, a breeze with a fresh, slightly algal smell to it. As they sat down, Delia noticed that there were kids far below them, boys in wet blue jeans, barefoot and bare-chested, climbing on the rocks at the bottom of the falls where the water crashed with a smoky foam. She pointed them out to Evan.
A young waiter came over and Evan ordered a martini. “Do you want a drink, Mother?”
“I'll have wine,” Delia said. She looked up at the waiter. “A sauvignon blanc if you have it.”
They sat back. The sound of the water was a steady noise around them. Delia asked about Evan's work. The drinks came. They talked about his kids, about his wife, about how busy she was at the moment. She did set design, and she had two shows opening in the fall.
Over lunch, their conversation became more desultory, both of them falling silent every now and then to look at the water, at the young men diving in the pool at the bottom of the falls. Delia thought of the boys Mrs. Davidson had told her about at the rehab place in Putnam, the daring young men who'd fallen, or crashed, or leapt from something they shouldn't have into something they shouldn't have. She thought about Evan when he was younger—Evan, who so much more than Brad had beckoned danger. She'd actually been relieved when he entered the Peace Corps, where it would be the government's job—no longer hers—to keep him from harm.
They'd almost finished when Evan asked more specifically about Tom, about how much improvement there'd been since he saw him in Washington.
Delia described him, and then the arrangements she'd made. She talked about the way their days went. “It's very companionable, really. It makes me realize how solitary I'd become.”
“So this is what you want. For the foreseeable future.”
“Yes. It is.”
“And Paris?”
“Ah.” She shrugged. “Well. Maybe you'll use it more.” She smiled at him. “It's true. It means I'll go less. But that was bound to happen eventually.”
“And you won't miss it.”
“Of course I'll miss it! But I will go from time to time. Just not for as long a time. I will not feel deprived, dear.”
“No. You do sound happy, in fact.”
“I am.”
“Do you think you're . . . falling in love again? As it were.” And now he sang the song, in Marlene Dietrich's German accent. “Fawleen in luff a gayn, whaat am I too doo . . .”
Delia laughed. Then, looking down, fussing with her napkin, she said, “Oh, I've always been in love. As you no doubt know.”
“Well, but it was on hold for a long time.” He said this carelessly, his hand made a quick airy gesture. “Or on the back burner, or something.”
Delia felt a prick of irritation at him, at his easy assumptions about her life, and Tom's. “It was never on hold,” she said.
“I just meant, you know, you didn't act on it,” he said, apology in his voice.
“It was never on hold,” she said. “It was never on the back burner, as you put it. We acted on it.”
“You acted on it.”
“Yes.” Delia sat back and looked levelly across the table at him.
“What are you saying, Mom? That you and Dad were lovers all these years?”
She let a few seconds pass. “Yes.”
His mouth opened, his eyebrows lifted. He looked away from her, over the water, down to the boys below. Then he looked back at her, smiling broadly. “Well!” he said.
She smiled back. “Yes. Well.” She pushed back her chair. “Shall we go now, and see your father?”
As they stepped into the kitchen, Delia could feel it—the cool air. “Ah, the air conditioner!” she said. “Isn't it lovely?”
He nodded.
“It's been sitting in the basement for lo! these many years. I wasn't even sure it worked anymore. So you see, having Tom here has helped me too, in fact. Matt put it in, just today. I didn't know if he'd have time or not.”
“And Matt is . . . ?”
“He's the student, the one I told you about. He's my Tom-sitt
er, and jack-of-all-trades. Come, meet him.”
Evan followed Delia to the living room. Matt was sitting on the couch, a book on his lap, pen in his hand, his bare feet propped against the coffee table. He hadn't heard them because of the noise of the air conditioner. It was noisy, the result, no doubt, of its age and its sitting unused for so long downstairs in the damp.
Matt scrambled up. He danced around, blushing, sliding his feet into his sandals and greeting them. He shook Evan's hand. They were almost the same height, but Evan looked slender and graceful next to Matt's childish bulk.
Matt told Delia that Tom was napping after a long walk outside. “We made it almost to the corner,” he said as he gathered his work together. “He's awesomely tough.”
“You know, those are the very words I would have chosen for Dad,” Evan said, smiling at Delia.
BUT WHEN TOM limped into the kitchen late in the afternoon and offered Evan his version of a greeting, Delia could see that Evan was appalled by his state, maybe even repulsed.
Over the course of the evening, though, as she cooked dinner, as they ate, as they sat around the kitchen table talking, she could watch Evan getting it, figuring out the rules for how Tom talked now. She could tell that he felt, just as she did, the presence of the person Tom had always been.
She watched Evan, his beautiful face lifting in response to Tom, smiling, talking. How much he had changed over the years!—that idealistic, romantic young man become a money guy, as he called himself, wearing his expensive clothes, living in his expensive loft in the city, having his children over once every few weeks. And yet the love she felt for him was unchanged, was based on who he'd been and who he still was to her. This is how it is with your children, she thought. You hold all the versions of them there ever were simultaneously in your heart.
ON THE WAY back to the train station the next day, he asked questions about the prognosis, and Delia answered honestly. More progress was always possible, and Tom wanted it, so he worked hard. “I think happiness counts too,” she said. “I'm sure it does, in fact. And he is happy here. With me.” She heard the pride in her own voice and was embarrassed, suddenly. “But there are limits,” she said. “I don't deceive myself. He won't work again. That's clear.”
Evan made a noise of agreement. After a moment he said, “We should think about closing down the Washington house, too, I suppose. Selling it.”
“Oh!” she said. She looked over at him. “Do you think so, at this point?”
“What do you mean, ‘at this point’?”
“Well, in case he recovers enough to want to go back.”
“And live alone?”
She could hear the incredulity in his voice. She didn't say anything.
“Mom.”
She looked at him again. Evan—so self-contained, so handsome.
His eyes were steady on her behind his glasses. His voice was gentle. “He won't live alone again. Don't you know that?”
She looked back to the road.
“And if he does, it'll have to be in some kind of assisted living place.” When she didn't answer in a minute, he said again, “Mom?”
“I suppose you're right. It's just . . .” She was silent for a long moment, driving, and then she said, “But I'd rather not do anything like that until he and I have talked. Until we know that's something he wants. Or that it's all right with him, in any case.”
“That's fine. We'll wait then.” After a minute he said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rush you. To make you go any faster than you want with this.”
She nodded.
He wouldn't allow her to come into the station to wait for the train with him. He leaned in the open passenger window after he'd gotten out. “I've gotta say, Mom, you're full of surprises.” He was grinning. “Secrets and surprises.”
She rolled her eyes.
He laughed and touched the door in farewell before he turned away.
Delia drove home slowly, the fender rattling. She had known it, hadn't she? That Tom wouldn't be able to go home, that he would have to stay with her. She had held out the hope—for his sake, of course—that he would get better, but she'd known almost right away, she realized now, that he wasn't likely to get better enough. That she would keep him. He would be hers.
Hadn't she even wanted that, some part of her? Wanted him to have to stay with her?
She tried to think that through. She didn't think so. She really didn't. Even in her joy at having him, those early days, she had always been working for what was best for him, she had always wanted that. She was sure of it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Meri, July 9–15, 1994
OVER THE LONG, hot weekend, Meri thought of Tom from time to time, his eyes on her as she had nursed. She had felt attractive then, she realized afterward. She had thought, maybe for the first time since Asa was born, that she could be his mother and still be herself, whole. Meri.
She thought too of Tom's gesture, that gesture of secrecy—if that's what it had been. Had it? Was that what he had meant? Or was it just an accident, as he lifted his hand to his eyes? She couldn't be certain either way.
Tuesday the temperature was supposed to reach ninety. Meri kept Asa in just his Pampers all day. Even so he was fussy, and when she nursed him, the heat of his flesh made her wet with perspiration where they touched. She had to unstick him when he was through.
It was cool at Delia's, Meri felt it as soon as she let herself in. Heaven. She could hear the rickety hum of an air conditioner as she came into the living room. Ah, there it was, an older model, set in one of the windows on the fireplace wall. Thank you, Delia. She set the bassinet on the floor, put a little cotton blanket over Asa, and sat down to wait.
When Len came in with Tom, Meri went out to the hall to ask him to keep his voice down. They chatted in whispers while Tom was in the lavatory. When he came out, Len turned to him. “You tired? Wanna rest?”
Tom shook his head. “Leeh rhoom,” he said.
Len took his elbow, but Tom shook him off. “Okay,” he said clearly. “S'okay.”
Len backed up dramatically, holding both hands in the air. “The guy wants to do it on his own,” he said, with a rising intonation, “let the guy do it on his own. That's what we call progress, my friends.”
By the time Meri said good-bye to Len and came back into the room, Tom had settled himself on the couch again. Meri asked him if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He shook his head no. She asked if he wanted her to read to him. He nodded, smiling. With a sense almost of ritual, Meri opened the paper, found an article, and began. She was aware of Tom's alertness, of a tension in him, until Asa stirred.
She set the paper down on the table. She picked Asa up and lifted her shirt. She was intensely conscious of Tom, and conscious again of feeling attractive to him, of feeling sexual.
When she saw Delia's car swing into the driveway, she shifted Asa to her shoulder and pulled her shirt down. “Delia's here,” she said.
Tom stood up laboriously, and started across the room, toward the hall. As he passed Meri's chair, he touched her shoulder. She looked up. He inclined his head slightly, and raised one hand and put it flat on his chest in a motion that looked to Meri like one of gratitude. Thank you. He was smiling, his eyes were full of a gentle amusement.
The next Thursday was the same. When she came into the living room after closing the door behind Len, his face was open in amused anticipation. “Tom,” she said.
“Mehr,” he answered.
She made a funny curtsy, and sat down. “Shall I read for a while?” she asked.
He nodded, and she leaned forward over the paper.
When Asa started to fuss, she looked at Tom. He was sitting back, waiting. She'd deliberately chosen a blouse today with buttons down the front, and she let it fall open while Asa nursed.
Every time she looked up, Tom's eyes were on her—moving from her breasts to her face, and back. Each of them smiled at the other when their eyes met.
Sh
e felt lovely.
It was a game, she thought, one they'd invented, one they'd worked out the rules to, one they each had a stake in. For her, it had to do with sex, with somehow restoring her sense of being sexual. And she could feel that that was happening—feel it in her breasts, in her womb.
For Tom? Well, maybe he had some parallel need. He'd been a man used to moving around among women after all, making flirtatious overtures, sexual overtures. This was perhaps a reminder of all that, of everything he'd lost. A healing reminder.
They were mending, she thought. They were mending themselves, and each other. Whom did it hurt? Not Asa. She stroked his head as his busy cheeks and throat worked. Not Nathan either.
When she burped Asa, when she switched him to her other breast, she was careless about covering herself, she let Tom see her.
Asa was still nursing when she saw Delia's car pull into the driveway, dented, disreputable-looking, the left rear fender crazily pointing skyward. She lifted Asa away from herself quickly and laid him across her lap as she buttoned her shirt. Tom's eyes were steady on her.
Delia came in the back way, she was walking down the hall from the kitchen. “How deliciously cool!” she cried, entering the living room. “I'm so glad you're all enjoying it.”
OVER THE NEXT few days Meri thought often about these afternoons with Tom, she examined her part in them from now one angle, now another. She knew that she was the kind of person capable of acting on feelings of slight, of anger. And she knew that she had felt slighted, and angry too, at Delia, for being inaccessible to her—and maybe, Meri thought, not even entirely accessible to herself. And of course earlier she had been angry at Nathan, because he had been so turned away from her, but she didn't feel that anymore.
And that wasn't how these times with Tom felt to her anyway—angry, or vengeful. No, the way they seemed to her was as if they existed almost in another dimension from the rest of her life. When she was with him, it was as if she dropped out of time, out of its press and obligation, out of its failings. Her failings.
