by Fiona Kidman
Had this been done for him, too? That was absurd.
He had only announced his impending arrival the day before. She could have bought a bottle of whisky, yes, but cleaned the house, mowed the lawns, lost weight? He half-smiled at his own silliness. At the same time it raised in his mind that other badly concealed gnawing concern.
‘You live on your own? I mean you and the children?’ He was getting closer to confronting it.
She regarded him with grave eyes. ‘Oh yes, Peter. Just the three of us.’
As she made no further comment but sat watching him with the same quiet contemplation, he thought, she has already divined what I have not admitted. She knows that I do not want to sell my house to her in order to house another man. Sharply, on the heels of that thought, followed another, more self-righteous anger. She had no right to house another man with the proceeds of their son’s death. The last time she had taken in a man (that he knew of) he had been responsible for that death, however much, in retrospect, it must be seen to be an accident.
‘Cigarette?’ He smoked more these days, and enjoyed it less.
She hesitated. ‘I’m trying to give it up. Oh well.’ She reached to accept one.
‘You really have changed.’ He resented her acceptance, it suggested that she was trying to make him relax. He ran his finger along the bookshelf beside him, a reflex action from the old days.
‘Not so much. I have a cleaning woman in while I’m at work,’ answering more than one question at a time, and making him embarrassed at what he had done.
‘It looks very nice.’
‘It’s home. That’s why I want it all to myself, Peter.’
‘I see.’
‘No. You don’t.’
He looked pointedly at the whisky bottle. She got up and took his empty glass. She had hardly touched hers.
‘Besides, I might want to shift away from here some day. Surely you can understand that, if nothing else,’ she said as she poured.
‘I would never stand in the way of that,’ he said stiffly, as she returned with the glass.
She sat down again. ‘Aren’t you having another? You can’t fly on one wing,’ he said.
‘I’ve been flying on a single wing for so long now, that it makes no difference, Peter,’ she said softly.
Was that his answer? he wondered. Should he simply give in at this point, admit he was wrong and go away? What did he want? Her? The house? Some misplaced pride? He had stripped her of enough in the past; surely she was entitled to some now. What was wrong with him? She sipped at her drink. Voices at the door announced that Abbie had located Stephen. A surge of excitement moved through him. His son, Stephen.
The boy slouched in without looking at him and stood glowering at his mother. Peter saw that her hand shook a little as she put the glass down on the hearth.
Peter got to his feet with his hand outstretched. The boy was slightly taller than him.
‘Hullo, Stephen.’
Stephen ignored the hand and said ‘Hi’ without looking at him. He reached over instead and turned on the television set. Peter saw that he had a gold ring through one ear and that his unkempt hair fell past his shoulders. Its greasiness was reflected in his blotchy skin and the boy smelt of stale smoke. The voice of Fonzarelli sprang to life from the box before the picture emerged from the tube.
‘Cool, huh? You like the Fonz?’ said Stephen.
‘He’s all right. I guess.’
‘You guess. Whaddya mean? The Fonz can sock it to them.’
‘But he doesn’t very often, does he?’ said Peter in what he hoped was not a lecturing kind of voice.
‘Ah fuck. Role models. That’s what we get shoved down our throats at school. Some creeps’d spoil anything. I tell ya the Fonz can sock it to them.’
He planted himself on a chair opposite them, his feet, clad in school socks beneath his jeans, pushed out in front of him. They smelt damp and slightly sour.
‘I think we should eat,’ said Bethany. ‘Peter, could you come through and fix the wine while I lift the dinner?’
It was a tiny dining area, partitioned off from the sitting room, barely accommodating the table.
‘Remember when we put this wall in?’ said Peter.
‘Thank goodness you did.’
‘You didn’t want it at the time.’
‘No, but you were right. You said we’d need somewhere to eat in peace when the kids got older.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Yes, wise guy.’
‘Aren’t the — children eating with us then?’ Although he could see the table was set for four.
‘Yes. But it gives us a breathing space.’
‘Why do you let him have it on? The television I mean?’
‘What would you do?’ When he didn’t reply immediately she said, ‘Well?’
‘We’ve put another set in the rumpus room for Jason. I have to say.’ Trying to pass it off deprecatingly.
‘The rumpus room.’ For the first time he detected a note of bitterness.
‘If you’re short of money, this is hardly the way to go about improving things, is it? Inflicting more money on me? When I already have a — a rumpus room. And a swimming pool. And two cars, if you like. And an allowance for my wife.’
‘It’s not the point.’
‘What is the point?’ He leaned against the doorway separating the dining room from the kitchen, watching her ladling soup.
‘Oh.’ She shook her head from side to side disbelievingly. ‘If you can’t see.’
‘Is Abbie always good?’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.
She looked surprised. ‘Abbie? No. What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t know. She always seems so sweet, so good-natured.’ As if the only three encounters he had had with the child made up a lifetime of knowledge. Oddly, it seemed to. He liked Abbie, the daughter he had never had. It was something visible that Bethany had and he did not. Maybe he had asked about her as a kind of leveller, to balance out the rumpus room and the swimming pool.
‘She can be sulky at times. Like Anna.’
‘That’s who I thought she was like. Last time I saw her I thought that. Thought of her straight away.’
‘You fancied Anna, didn’t you?’ She said it without rancour.
‘Yes, I did rather. Lovely legs.’
‘Never got her though, did you?’
‘No. Nearly though. Once.’
‘Yes. Well I can see that it could happen.’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘But it didn’t.’
‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’ He grinned, and suddenly would have loved to tell her about some of his exploits. She looked as if she might like to hear, too. Instead he said, ‘How is Anna, anyway?’
‘I haven’t seen her lately.’ Bethany’s look was unfriendly, as if he had been trying to trap her into some admission of guilt.
‘Well,’ he said lamely, ‘things pass, I suppose’, wanting to deflect her coolness and regain their fleeting intimacy.
‘I suppose they do.’ The subject was closed.
Bethany was placing plates around the table. She had made vichyssoise and lemon veal with broccoli and baked potatoes, and he saw that there was a cheesecake on the bench in the kitchen. Plain, delicious; he was starving. The wine would not be so good, he saw. The corkscrew was worn and wobbled at the top. He concentrated on getting the cork out safely.
It seemed to take forever for them to be seated around the table. Abbie, who had set the table, had forgotten things and, when reminded, exhibited some of the temperament her mother had remarked on; Stephen delayed the meal by refusing to come until the programme was finished; and Peter, who was meticulous about washing, went to the bathroom and Bethany remembered that she hadn’t left a clean towel for him, and insisted on getting one, even though he called out that it didn’t matter, because the meal would be cooling fast on the table.
But in the end they were all together, eatin
g. Well almost, because while he had been washing Stephen’s programme had finished and the boy had finished his soup before the others were seated. Now he sat fidgeting and whistling through his teeth as they began their meal.
‘Stephen dear,’ said Bethany. He ignored her.
Peter poured wine for himself and Bethany and hesitated by Stephen’s glass.
‘Would you like some wine, dear?’ said Bethany to their son.
‘No.’
‘A beer then?’
‘What beer?’
‘I got some especially for you. It’s in the fridge.’
His face was expressionless. ‘I drank that when I got home.’
Bethany looked away, so that Peter couldn’t see her expression.
Where do we go from here? he wondered. What do they want me to do? Am I included in this or not?
‘What do you think about your mother buying the house out, Stephen?’ he said.
‘I reckon she’s nuts. You oughter be giving her money.’ He turned his comments towards Bethany. ‘You said we could have a pool table.’
‘I didn’t realise one would take up so much room,’ said Bethany patiently. ‘We just don’t have enough room for one.’
‘You mean you can’t afford it. You always say we’re going to have more money but we never do.’
‘Stephen, that’s enough,’ said Peter.
The boy turned on him. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
Bethany said, her voice trembling, ‘Please, Stephen, Peter doesn’t understand. Your — father’s not used to teenagers.’
Stephen, looking as if he was planning to strike Peter, sat bunching and unbunching his fists.
‘I want the house, Stephen. I didn’t have to ask you, but I wanted you to be here when it was decided,’ Bethany said.
‘It’s got nothing to do with me. You two — you’re fucked in the head. If you wanted to ask me you should have done it when we were little — me and Ritchie.’ His voice was high and hysterical. ‘I suppose you asked her.’ He spat this at Bethany but he was referring to Abbie, who cowered in her seat, picking at the veal.
‘Stephen, shut up, will you!’ shouted Bethany, her control snapping.
Peter felt he had had this scene with them before. Was this what it was like, day in and day out? Was there no peace between them at all? The violence frightened him.
‘How’re you going to make me?’
‘I’ll kill you if I have to!’ she screamed.
There was a shocked silence in the room. Stephen looked around the table, his glance resting on Bethany’s glass. His newly sprung Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his cheeks flamed.
Out of the corner of his mouth he said to Peter, sneering, ‘She’ll say anything when she’s got a coupla drinks in her.’
He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. ‘Why don’t you all get rooted?’
Bethany’s head dropped into her hands.
At the door he said, ‘Ritchie would have had a pool table, I’ll bet ya. If you’d asked him what to do with his money he wouldn’t have given it to him.’
He disappeared. A moment later the outside door slammed and there was silence.
‘I’ll watch television, Mum,’ said Abbie in a small voice.
‘Don’t you want some cheesecake?’ asked Bethany, lifting her head.
‘Keep me some.’ Abbie slid off her chair.
When she had gone, Bethany got up as if to get dessert but Peter put out his hand to stop her. ‘Not for me.’
‘I’ll make some coffee then.’
‘Later.’ He picked up the bottle of wine, offered to refill her glass. She covered it with her hand.
‘Is it true then? What he said?’
‘No.’ Her answer was vehement. She gestured. ‘When Ritchie died, yes. Yes, and afterwards. Not too bad. Bad enough. I always liked wine, you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘No more than anyone else. Well, most people. You should see Nell Parker these days. She doesn’t get out of her dressing gown till three o’clock. Have one for morning tea, she says, bucks you up. Poor Nell. D’you know I caught her having a sherry with her poached eggs one morning? Imagine it.’ Her voice was almost back to normal.
‘But you changed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not? I’m me.’
‘Yes. You always have been.’
‘I stopped blaming other people. You, for instance.’
‘Stephen,’ said Peter. ‘He’s my fault. Like Ritchie.’
She shook her head. ‘I used to think so. There’re worse teenagers, Peter. They do get better. Some of them. I reckon I’ve got a lucky streak. It has to surface sooner or later.’
‘I should never have left you,’ he said bleakly.
It was her turn to look shocked. ‘Of course you should, Peter. Look at me. Look — at — me.’
He did look at her too. It was impossible to resist looking at her. Her head was held at a stately angle, her throat, still delicately and palely brown from the past summer, rose from the collar of the cream blouse. In his mind’s eye he could see the line of colour travel to the swell of her breasts; he thought of a summer feast of apricots and cream on this winter’s night. She stared at him across the table, willing him to see beyond this physical presence.
He concentrated all his attention on what she was asking, and thought that he did see. Not the Bethany he had known, Bethany still with a long way to go, but Bethany on the up-and-up. In spite of everything.
She got up then and fetched the coffee, which had been percolating on the stove. They pretended the cheesecake didn’t exist.
‘The house, Peter.’
He was silent.
She stirred a little cream into her coffee. ‘It was over a long time ago. No,’ she put up her hand. ‘I didn’t understand that, it’s true. I’m not sure you do, even now. Once — well, I thought you were far ahead of me, I could have sworn it. I envied you that. Resented it. If you can’t let this house go, Peter, then you’re not there at all.’
Dully, he thought, or maybe I’ve just slipped back. She’s gone forward, and I’ve gone back.
‘There’s nothing, Pete.’ The old affectionate abbreviation made him want to sob into his coffee, though it had slipped off her tongue as if she hadn’t noticed what she was saying. ‘Or nothing much. No marriage. The house doesn’t mean anything to you. You wouldn’t be seen dead owning a house like this. A private indulgence. No Ritchie, he’s gone too. Only Stephen. That’s all there is left between you and me, one son who, right now, neither of us likes very much.’
‘Don’t you love him any more? I mean — I wouldn’t blame you but —’ He trailed into silence.
‘Love? Oh that. Yes, I love Stephen, but that’s different, isn’t it?’
‘I like you,’ he said, on sudden impulse.
She looked up with a smile. ‘Then I’m very glad. But you don’t love me.’
‘Point taken,’ he said lightly, but inside his treacherous aching heart told him that it might be possible after all. The discovery alarmed him, exposing, as it did, some inner knowledge that shook him in its unexpectedness. It touched at his existence, for if it were true, he understood that he might never recover, that it was a wound he might nurse forever. He almost whimpered with his need to be comforted. Instead, he studied the checked tablecloth and the stainless steel cutlery which, over the years, had gathered small indissoluble lines of dirt in its patterned handles as hard as the metal itself.
He got up to go. ‘All right, house then. Get the papers drawn up.’
‘Thank you.’
‘One thing please, in return. What we put into it, that’s all.’
‘But its value’s appreciated out of sight,’ she said.
‘It’s a condition.’
‘All right. That’s fair.’
‘That’s what I want, for it to be fair.’
‘Tell Abbi
e goodbye,’ he said at the door, and then, as an afterthought, ‘Stephen too.’
‘I will.’
‘A liberated woman, eh?’
She deflected her eyes only slightly. ‘If I’m liberated I hate to think what your ladies are like.’
‘Would you ever get married again, Bethany?’ Before he felt he would have betrayed himself by asking her; now it felt right.
‘Ask me in ten years time. Would you?’
‘I am,’ he said, but he knew what she meant. If there was no Patsy, would he go off and begin the whole saga again? ‘I need a woman around,’ he said, by way of excuse. Oh, she had come so much further than he had done.
She put on the outside light. He turned and put his hand lightly on the small of her back. She had always liked having her back touched; she said it was more sensual than having her breasts fondled. He wanted to try and tell her that he believed it was possible to love several women at once. There were so many conversations that he would like to have with her, and would not. He opened his mouth to tell her how beautiful she was. Instead she closed it with a kiss transferred on the tip of her index finger to his lips, and slipped away from him.
The shiny red rental car stood beside her battered Mini. As he got into his car he called out, ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ He had meant to say, if you have any problems, meaning Stephen — not that he knew what to do, but he wanted her to know. There was a rustle in the bushes nearby. He did not know whether he saw the shape of a boy. Streamers of fog were coming in from the hills. It might lie for a day, or two days, in this place, and the frost turn black.
Driving away, leaving her yet again, he thought how very odd it was that she at last believed all the things that he had for so long tried to convince her were true, and how very little, any more, he agreed.
