Stranger, Father, Beloved

by Taylor Larsen

  * * *

  She heard a knocking at the door, and then she heard it open. She came down the stairs and saw John standing in the doorway.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was home, so I used my key.”

  “It’s no problem, I’m glad you’re here.” The statement seemed too intimate or revealing, and she instantly regretted it. “Would you like something to eat or drink?”

  They made their way into the kitchen, and she heated a cup of coffee in the microwave.

  The silence was awkward, and she was eager to get out of doors. She felt ambivalent toward John—he was easy to be around and required little formality, but she secretly felt he must find her to be a poor match for Michael, and she distrusted his presence. People from her own background could surely see through the ruse of her being in such a privileged position.

  “I’m not up to much. I can come outside and see what you’re working on.”

  The two stepped out, and the air was clean and warm around them. John began his work, clearing out rocks from the square of dirt that would be the site of the gazebo. It was particularly quiet in the yard, and their chitchat hung in the air without reverberation. She found she was able to relax around John. She was used to the constant tension that clung to Michael that always kept her on edge, and in its absence she felt her mind and body relax.

  She sat in a chair and watched John work. He had nice lean muscles, similar to Michael’s physique. Leaning forward, he dug awkwardly, putting his full weight on his shovel to force it to pierce the soil.

  He smiled at her. “I’m not used to being watched.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m making you nervous. How stupid of me. Let me help.”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that I must seem like I don’t know what I’m doing. Please stay and relax—it’s nice to have the company.”

  “Normally I would be going to book club now, but I skipped out on it today.”

  “Why’s that? Bad book?”

  “In my opinion, yes. Although I’m sure everyone else is raving about it.” She paused.

  John spoke up. “My wife never joined a book club, but she did read. She read a lot of mysteries and sometimes horror books. She would read them at night while I slept. She was a night owl. Always thinking. I was a morning person. I mean, I am a morning person.”

  Nancy tried to picture his wife and imagined a slimmer, wiry version of herself, only tougher and more blunt. The more she thought of the woman, the less her persona resembled Nancy in her mind, although they would always have one thing in common—their roots. This woman, unlike Nancy, had probably been mean and a little intimidating, but they both had come from the same background—as much as she read, his wife probably had the trash in her. She probably had the local county accent, so similar to the way people talked from her own hometown. Yep, a trailer girl was what John’s wife was; there was no getting around that. A spasm of hatred passed through Nancy as she stood out on the lawn, and then it retreated.

  She found it harder and harder to stand outside with John as the minutes passed. She became very conscious of how unattractive she had become and how unappealing she was to men. She’d used to feel reasonably attractive, but then the photos would come in from weddings and birthdays and she would gasp when she saw herself. She was lost in her own body, solid and round, and she was stunned that she had not noticed. Enough of the photos had shown the same image to convince her that she no longer had traces of loveliness, so it pained her to be around men, especially one on one.

  She had talked with John at the party. She could hardly remember the conversation, only that she had felt wild from too many drinks and her old self, the part of her that could charm, had made an appearance. Without alcohol it vanished, and as hard as she tried to find it, it was too stubbornly slippery to stay put for long.

  As she sipped her water, she thought about the groundwater problem on the Peninsula—she wondered what John thought of it.

  “I never know whether to listen to people when they say that the groundwater’s polluted. What do you think? Do you drink it when you’re at home?”

  “I don’t have to worry about that. I live on the mainland.” He thought for a minute. “But if I did live here, I would probably drink it—I don’t like to listen to rumors. Who ever knows if they’re really true.”

  “I buy bottled water, but it’s such an effort to always remember to use it and so much easier to just take water from the faucet. Still, there are so many cases of cancer on the Peninsula—it does make you wonder. People seem to get cancer here pretty young, and there’s a lot of breast cancer. They think it has to do with drinking the tap water your whole life. If it’s true, it’s a very sad thing.”

  “I agree with you. How did the water get polluted in the first place? What do they say?”

  “I don’t know. I never quite got it. Something about minerals . . .” John kept working, and Nancy glanced around the yard and then at the house. It irritated her that her husband was not there.

  “I should go back in and occupy myself somehow,” she said. The shame was overwhelming, all from just standing alone with a man in her yard. She felt this shame around Michael’s Yale friends, whom she knew pitied her, but she had thought she would be safe with someone like John. Apparently there was no one who was safe for her to be around.

  * * *

  She went inside to shower, then dressed up in her cream pants suit and drove to Orin. She parked, went into an expensive boutique, Gina Hurley, and moved around the small store with attempted confidence. The two women who worked there took notice of her and brought her the only dresses and tops they had in her size. They didn’t say so, but it was clear that the selection for the unthin was limited. She tried on the five items, all of which looked horrible. She bought two of them, just because not to buy them would somehow be more humiliating than to leave with nothing.

  Then she went to a movie by herself in the late afternoon, got the popcorn, soda, candy combo that was advertised, and enjoyed herself immensely. Two high schoolers were kissing in the back row, and an elderly man sat unmoving across the aisle from her. The film was a romantic comedy, whose every turn was predictable, and Nancy felt a joy she hadn’t experienced in years as she slouched in the purple velvet chair and sipped her Coke. After it was over, she paid for another movie and went in, but twenty minutes into it, the moment had lost its thrill, and she walked out into the warm dusky air to look for her car.

  When she returned home, John was still out working where she had left him. She remembered that he did not have a family of his own to return to, but still, the image was pathetic. The two kids who usually helped him had another job they were working on, so John was stuck doing all of the work himself.

  Giving in to the fact that she was stuck with him, she leaned her head out the door and called, “John, have you had dinner?”

  “I brought along some chips with me and have been snacking on those,” he called back, his voice echoing across the empty yard.

  “Come on in, and I’ll heat you up something,” she called and let the door slam before he could reply.

  John walked into the kitchen and went to wash his hands in the bathroom. It was clear that he felt awkward, and, before he could say something about it, Nancy asked, “Do you like spaghetti with meat sauce?”

  “Yes, I love it, but—”

  “It’s no problem. I can reheat leftovers, no big deal. Have a seat and have a glass of wine with me.” As soon as she said it, she ­realized what a relief it was to have someone to talk and share wine with. When they were first married, Michael had taught her a lot about wine, and they had gone on several wine-tasting trips. It had been so long since the two of them had sat out in the evening, sipped wine, and talked about the day.

  “I’ve been meaning to try this bottle. Someone gave it to us at our party, and we haven�
�t opened it yet. It’s supposed to have a gorgeous taste.” She brought out two glasses, poured a generous amount in each, and set John’s down in front of him.

  “Where’s Michael?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, probably at work. He works on Saturdays from time to time.” Nancy did little to disguise the bitterness in her voice.

  John didn’t reply. He drank some of the wine. “Mmm, this is good. I don’t know much about wine, but I do know what tastes good.”

  “Let me try mine. Yes, it is delicious.” She put the spaghetti into the microwave. “Thank God for wine. It’s perfect at the end of the day.”

  “You got that right. I should get into the stuff. Replace my beer with this. It tastes healthier than beer.”

  “It’s not as fattening. Not that you need to worry about that,” she said, glancing at his slim frame.

  “Neither do you.”

  “Well, that’s debatable.” Both were silent. Nancy appreciated the comment but had no response. She would take it—maybe her appearance wasn’t as bad as she thought. It was amusing that all the men in her life were very thin, to the point of being waiflike, while she had never had the luxury of being skinny.

  She set the plate of spaghetti down on the placemat in front of him and sprinkled Parmesan cheese over it.

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I ate already,” she lied. She hadn’t had dinner, although she had stuffed herself with popcorn earlier. Besides, she didn’t like to have people watch her eat, especially people who weren’t her family. Michael’s mother had once remarked to him about the way she ate, and she had never forgotten it. She had not been meant to hear it—the remark had been made in stealth and in low tones, and Michael had been offended and stood up for her, but she had still heard. “Noisy eaters” is what she had said, referring to both Max and Nancy.

  John was a tidy, efficient eater, never getting sauce around his mouth. The wine relaxed him, and she noticed that he was not a bad-looking man.

  She poured him another glass while he ate, as well as a glass of water.

  “I’m glad I didn’t go to book club. Maybe I’ll drop out. I don’t see why I need to discuss the books with everyone. It’s not really my thing, anyway. Since you’re done, let’s sit out on the patio and drink our wine. Oh, I have pie—do you want a piece? It’s apple.”

  “Oh, yes, please. That sounds perfect. Let me wash the dishes.”

  “Okay, since it’s only one dish I’ll let you.”

  They cleaned up the kitchen, and then Nancy flicked the switch for the low-level lighting that decorated the back patio.

  “These lights are probably my favorite feature in this entire house. Does that sound silly?” She felt extreme pleasure in turning on these little lights that, by day, were camouflaged into the wood of the patio. At night the little bulbs, twelve in total, cast a ring of pale light over the floorboards, reminding Nancy of a fairy village on a hillside.

  She and John sat in adjacent chairs at the edge of the patio looking over the expanse of the darkening yard.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” Nancy murmured once she was seated. There were fireflies hovering over the garden and up into the trees.

  “That’s the only bug I know of that I like,” John said.

  “Fireflies?”

  “Yeah. The only beautiful bug around, unless we were in the Amazon. I’m sure there are pretty bugs there.”

  “You ever traveled overseas?”

  “Me? Naw. You?”

  “Michael took me to England and Ireland. It was amazing.”

  “Did you stay in a castle?”

  “Actually, we did. But only for two nights. It was very romantic. They had candelabras on the hallway walls and electric candles in the hotel rooms. I think the style was gothic.”

  “Gothic like Dracula?”

  “High ceilings and long velvet curtains—dark lighting.”

  “Spooky. But it sounds like a lot of fun.”

  A fox walked lazily across the yard, and its presence disturbed a rabbit chewing on some grass twenty feet away. The rabbit jerked its head up, listening, its eyes wide with terror, then turned and scampered away from the fox into the dense bushes.

  “My shoulders are cold. I’m going to go inside for a throw—do you need one?”

  “No, I’m okay. Oh what the hell, bring me one.”

  “I’ll grab the bottle while I’m at it too.”

  She came back out and gave John the white throw, which was softer than the pink one that she kept for herself.

  “This is a little slice of heaven here, this property. You sure I’m not bothering you by being here?”

  “Not at all—I need the company. It’s been a long day, and, as you can see, my husband is not around.” The bluntness of her statement silenced the two of them for a minute.

  Nancy was aware that in the darkness she probably appeared quite pretty to John, and she basked in the knowledge.

  “I’ll open another bottle,” she said and went into the kitchen.

  When she returned, she poured John another glass and then sat down again next to him.

  “What do you think is your best feature?” she asked.

  “Physical feature?”

  “Yeah.”

  He laughed and covered his mouth with his hand. “I’ve never been asked that before. I don’t know, let me think about it. What’s yours?”

  “I have excellent hands and feet. I always have. Beautiful, dainty hands and nice nails and lovely-colored skin. My feet haven’t aged a day since I was a girl. And they never smell.”

  “I guess mine would be my back. I don’t have back hair, and I have strong back muscles. My wife also said I have a nice mouth.” He blushed and was silent. “You have other nice features, though. Hands and feet are great, but you have other, more obvious good traits.”

  “Like what?”

  “Nice eyes and hair. I’ll stop there before I say something out of line.”

  “Come on. No one needs a compliment more than me. Who cares if it sounds out of line?” The truth was, she was desperate for the compliment.

  “You promise you won’t get offended?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have nice breasts.”

  Nancy began giggling and looked away quickly. “That was out of line! But I can’t say I’m not flattered. I’ve been told that before.” She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh God, we should stop. This conversation is getting to be too much. Where the hell is my family?” she asked, and the two of them laughed.

  “We’ve been deserted,” John replied and searched her face. “Should I leave?”

  “You probably should, although I’ve been having so much fun. I haven’t had a belly laugh like that in ages. Thank you for that.”

  “No, thank you. You’ve been quite the hostess. The meal was excellent.”

  “I can’t really take credit for that—it’s from a jar.” Even as she said it, she noticed that she felt a satisfaction that had been missing for years. John was easy to please and take care of. He operated from the code of regular men.

  “Yeah, but why does leftover spaghetti always taste so much better than when it’s fresh?” he asked.

  “It does, doesn’t it? Are you okay to drive?” She suddenly wished she had not cut the evening short. She did not want him to leave, but there was no way she could ask him to stay at this point.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  They walked toward the front door, and he stood there for a moment with his keys in his hand. “Well, see you Monday bright and early.”

  “Yeah, have a good rest of the weekend, John.”

  After he left, the silence in the house took on a new texture, and for a moment she felt inexplicably frightened of the dark. As she stood there alone in the downstairs kitchen,
she realized why. It was happening again. Michael was headed toward one of his breakdowns. Could they survive another one? The thought was unbearable, and she tried to dismiss it. Maybe after all these years she was becoming paranoid for no reason. She took a deep breath and went to lock the patio door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  John was becoming a permanent part of their lives, or so it seemed to Michael. He had been working in the backyard for a couple weeks now, and having him around eased Michael’s mind in an inexplicable and yet fundamental way. John was always cheerful in a quiet manner and seemed to admire Michael, how he had a large house, a successful career, and children. He smiled at an offered glass of iced tea with sincere gratitude. Why couldn’t Michael appreciate the little things like that? Perhaps it was his wealthy upbringing; perhaps he had been spoiled, always wanting more, more, more. Now he saw John’s face in his mind’s eye, handsome in a subdued way—there to restore order should a family emergency rise.

  Michael had gone to bed that night at eight, while it was still partly light. He lay down just to rest for a minute, and the warm breeze and the smell of the hydrangeas through the window, the sky all lit up with pink, bewitched him. He found himself heavy, a delirious form of slowness, and the sheets felt better against his skin than they ever had as he lay in them, and he could not bring himself to get up but felt he would sleep forever.

  Michael drifted off holding that stoic and trustworthy face of John’s in his mind. John wouldn’t let them down. He had stayed for dinner with Nancy the other night, and imagining the two of them alone, eating and talking, gave Michael pleasure. Nancy should be able to enjoy a nice meal with a grounded, normal, single man.

  * * *

  Michael awoke at five in the morning with clarity of mind and did not feel like sleeping a second longer. He went down to the kitchen to make breakfast for his family. He was ashamed when he realized how rare it was for him to pamper his family, and he was especially vigilant with carrying out his tasks.

  Looking out into the dimly lit yard, he saw John’s partially constructed porch extension and gazebo and felt genuine happiness that John would be here in a little over an hour to work. He wished he could skip work himself and stay to help him out in the yard. Michael’s fondness for John was growing.