Stranger, Father, Beloved

by Taylor Larsen

  Michael knew it was a ridiculous moment. He didn’t know what he had expected to find there. Maybe something would be out of the ordinary? Some change would have taken place. Why couldn’t John have slept on the couch downstairs? To have a new body in the house, someone other than the four of them, would alter the atmosphere under their roof and would act as a catalyst for much-needed change. But there was nothing. John had probably left around ten or so the night before, as he should have. Nothing had happened.

  Michael poked his head into Max’s room and observed the sleeping form in bed. He then walked to Ryan’s room and opened the door a crack. To his astonishment, he found her bed empty, neatly made up. It was after five in the morning, still dark out, and she was not home.

  She’s at Carol’s, no big deal, he thought to calm himself. But he knew there was more to it than that. Something was going on. If Michael had known how difficult being a father was, he might never have done it. If he had been aware of the hours of agony that were involved with seeing a person go through every single stage of her life from birth through adulthood with little say in how it would work out for her, he would never have chosen to set this life in motion. Maybe Nancy had it right with religion. You could control more with that.

  He got into his car and drove to the small coastal highway. He drove to Jill’s house. All the lights were off. He did not see Ryan’s car in the driveway. He passed the house and pulled over by the water.

  There were several possibilities. Her car was in the garage, and she was asleep at Jill’s. Her car was in the garage, and Jill let her have a boy stay there. Jill had always been a wild, tacky kind of hippie woman. She might let Ryan have her first time there. Or Ryan had taken her car and gone to be with someone, whom she was now with, and might be returning in the early hours to Jill’s. It would be difficult for him to ascertain the exact reality. If the last option were the case, he could catch her. He could wait there and see if she drove back or emerged from the house in the morning.

  Michael took out the draft of his novel from the box in his car and turned on the car light to read it. He had also stashed some pens in there and was pleased to find a red one. He pulled it out and began circling sentences that could be improved. The paragraph had begun so well: “The day was neither bold nor timid—it spun its wheels fairly and with neutrality, letting people come and go, but it could hardly have been called beautiful. It was a mild spring day and the grass was green, but it lacked that ripening, that opening that can be found on the freshest days of the season.” But then the writing trailed off into more description and became a monotonous procession of repetition. He did indeed improve it each time he reworked it, but it occurred to him that the revisions could be endless, as it never seemed finished.

  The character was a man who walked around and noticed everything, and rarely interacted with other humans. Against his better judgment, he had shown a scene to Nancy, who had gushed over it, and now Michael wanted to keep the passage hidden in his own heart forever as evidence that he wasn’t just cold and clinical but could move people and create a poetic scene. His character, nameless, in first person, swims in a calm river alone at night and drifts, bewitched by the stars and freed and excited by his own nakedness. But the scene functioned independently. It was not connected to the rest of the book and was harshly beautiful in comparison to everything else he had produced.

  For all his knowledge, Michael felt helpless about the idea of trying to approach an agent about his novel. He could not contact one of the two writers living on the Peninsula. He was a businessman and might be laughed at for attempting to be a novelist. He was neither a writer nor a professor. Both of those paths, if he had dedicated himself to either one, would have resulted in a stream through which he could have unleashed all the thoughts rattling around in his brain.

  He tilted his seat back and let his eyes fall slightly out of focus. When he woke up it was after nine in the morning and Ryan’s car was still not in sight. He drove home and parked in his driveway. All this racing around was beginning to disorient him. It was harder to remember what day it was, where he was supposed to be, and to summon the will to do the things a man of his age should do, like attend work in a normal fashion at the usual hours, use his grill, have a regularly scheduled hobby such as racquetball that he diligently showed up for.

  After returning home, Michael spent the day in his study, going over bills and filing papers. His daughter was gone all day, but in the evening he heard her come in and go up to her room. When he walked past her room to his own, he heard her on the phone, laughing and talking in low tones.

  Why could he not reprimand Ryan and discipline her? He felt he did not have the right; his weaknesses were so visible, and a knowing look could rouse his awareness of them all. She was stronger than he was. If he were to lay down the law, he would only be openly mocked, and he did not have the solidity or the fortitude to withstand such a confrontation. He wondered: Did she know he was crazy? Did she know? Had Nancy told her, or had she figured it out? When he acted illogically, he was a bad parent, and when he tried to be responsible and keep his daughter safe from making bad choices with boys, he was also a bad parent. It seemed he was getting it all wrong. Was there anything he could do correctly anymore?

  Michael left the hallway and entered his bedroom. He felt his head spin slightly from anger and was relieved to see Nancy reading on their bed.

  “I slept at the office, Nancy.” He saw her weary face and knew she was about to respond with a snippy comment. He should give her something.

  “Why don’t I give you a massage, Nancy?”

  “Okay,” she said in surprise and rolled over. Michael saw the curve of her back under her green silk nightgown, the same nightgown that he had bought for her years ago. She wore it as constant proof that they were indeed linked. He loved his wife, wanted to please her, but he could not help hating that they were linked for life as fucker and fuckee, and he could not escape the fact. He saw the round curve of her butt under the silk and felt a flash of arousal, which quickly faded.

  He began massaging her. He gave in and moved his hands in the style that she liked, thorough and slow, but then quickened his pace, which he knew she didn’t like. He worked the loose skin on her back like dough, somewhat roughly, but she didn’t complain. He was aware, on some level, that she was aroused and felt himself inevitably pulled in that direction. He didn’t want to be doing this, but he would do it. It was his duty. He pulled up her nightgown, exposing her thick pale legs, and he knew she was probably anxious at having her body seen. He massaged along the sides of her thighs and then pulled down her light green cotton underwear, underwear that matched the nightgown for some pathetic reason. Maybe she had been waiting for this. He scooped his hands under her breasts and began rubbing against her.

  Michael knew he should kiss her. He would have to kiss her. Her face was turned to the side, and he leaned forward. But she remained lying on her stomach, passively ready to accept. She knew he didn’t want to kiss her and wouldn’t make him have to do it. He pulled down his pants and underwear and entered her, and a certain misery shook loose and began twisting in him. He knew she wouldn’t come this way. She knew it too. Yet she moaned quietly for his benefit. Michael tried to pull out midway, but she pulled on his hip and sent him back in. He felt anger as he was kept thrusting by her hand on his hip. He was close, and he came, in a terrible explosion, pleasurable, abrupt. Having orgasms was deeply embarrassing for him; they always had been. In a moment of climax he felt he was writhing in the sheets like an idiot. He pulled out quickly and lay beside her. She was undoubtedly not feeling anything. The rage came back—why had she forced him to finish? She got nothing from these romps; they were childish and pointless. He looked at her face, which was looking up at the ceiling. She knew not to look at him. It hit him that she enjoyed being used.

  This was what they’d come to. A strong urge to hit her seized Michael
as she lay there pretending to be in a state of rapture. He wanted to slap her for pretending. Instead he got up from the bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. He could do anything, anything in this marriage, and still she would be there, unmoving, waiting like a boulder.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Full summer had arrived. The days were longer, and everyone ached to be out of doors. Ryan’s school year had ended a couple of weeks ago, and she was often absent from the house for days at a time. It seemed more and more that Michael was comfortable only in the presence of John, whom he had befriended. The two of them spent a couple of Saturdays hiking together after Michael learned that it had been John’s favorite hobby when he was married.

  They drove onto the mainland about forty-five minutes from Orin to a national park, and after parking the car at the trail head and walking the two-mile loop, they stopped in a small family-owned restaurant near the beginning of the trail. For those few hours, Michael was free of his family and in the company of someone who was quiet, good-natured, and actually more intelligent than Michael had initially given him credit for. Breathing the fresh air on their short hike made Michael dizzy with elation. When they clambered down from the woods and entered the restaurant, they were pleased to see that its inside was modest, basic, just as they felt it should be. They were the only customers in the restaurant, so they sat and talked after eating the greasy hamburgers. The waitress brought coffee, although they had not ordered it, and they both found that very charming because they had in fact both wanted it.

  “How often did you and your wife go camping?”

  “About once a month for the first year of our marriage. In the summer, we got away almost every weekend. Anne loved the outdoors. She knew more about different types of wild flowers and trees than even I did.”

  “You must have loved her a lot,” Michael said and leaned in, giving John his full attention. He felt that at that moment, John was impressed by his concern, even though Michael’s intensity seemed to catch him off guard.

  “Yes, of course I did,” John replied, looking somewhat bewildered, but then his face softened. “We went on wilderness retreats with our church after our marriage started to fall apart, but in the end it didn’t help much.”

  “Was it depressing to have to go with a group after all your years of going just the two of you?” Michael asked.

  John’s lips twisted into a thoughtful position as he considered this. “It was for her, I think. She was always so independent. But I actually loved those group camping trips.”

  “It must have been a relief to appear as a couple, because when other people are around, you have to treat each other with the utmost respect. It feels good not to fall into that interpersonal hell that can be created between two people.”

  “Yes, it was a comfort, I guess,” John replied and then stared at his hands in silence. The waitress came by with more coffee. Michael feared he was getting too intimate.

  “Do they slam the religious stuff down your throat at those retreats?”

  “No, it’s mostly informal, more to get out and see nature. Although there are families in crisis there. You know, kids who act out and situations like that. They say the trips help them.”

  “Have you noticed how my daughter acts? Have you noticed how out of control she’s gotten?”

  “I didn’t notice that. She does seem kind of sad though, like a loner.”

  “Do you think she would benefit from one of those retreats in the woods?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had kids. I can say that it really helped other families I know.”

  “When was the last time you went? A few years ago?”

  “Yeah, two or three years ago.”

  “Would you consider going again? With me and my family?” The thought was blossoming in Michael’s mind, expanding into brighter and brighter technicolor—all of them in the sunshine, shaken out of their gloomy ways by the slap of Mother Nature. That was exactly what they all needed. Joy squeezed at his heart, and he felt that if John turned him down at this moment or laughed at him, he would never recover.

  “I can give you the brochure, I would just be tagging along if I came. I wouldn’t want to disturb you. Plenty of families go—you would meet a lot of great people.”

  “You aren’t interested in going with us?”

  “Of course I’m interested. I love your family.”

  As the conversation continued, Michael convinced him that the family would not be comfortable going without him, that on some level he was proving indispensable to them. John seemed to warm at this, a modest smile playing about his lips and eyes. Michael hadn’t felt this content for quite some time. He felt that if he could just depart and lose himself in some random location with John’s gentle, honest company, he would be able to make it through his life.

  He had been going over Alex’s essay when he had free moments, writing his best feedback in the margins of the piece. The act of reviewing his essay had kept Alex much on his mind lately. Alex had shepherded him through his college years, allowing for some happy memories to fill the album of Michael’s life. What solace was found in the company of someone like Alex, someone elegant, dignified, yet full of good nature despite all the snobbery his good breeding implied. Shockingly, Alex was the furthest thing from arrogant or snobbish, although Michael somehow always felt he should have been or deserved to be. Michael realized that he had found the same sense of solace with John. When they spent time together, the hours flowed along seamlessly and his companionship did not irritate Michael’s mind but allowed for some calm to enter.

  * * *

  That same day, John and Michael drove out to the retreat center, passing run-down sections of Rhode Island with above-ground pools and houses in need of a good painting. Elderly folks sat on the porches as they whizzed by, and off the highway, on the smaller streets, kids stood at the side of the roads, footballs in hand, and waited for their car to pass since their own lawns were too small to play on. They eventually got out to pure wilderness, with occasional houses with old rusted trucks parked in the drive. Michael met the couple in charge of the center, Bill and Joy Dover. They were hefty, ugly people, but they had a shine to them, no doubt the result of a kind of inner peace that he himself had never felt. The center consisted of a scattering of basic yet clean cabins and a small lodge where meals and evening meetings were held. Michael could imagine John and John’s wife walking those trails. Then they would fall asleep after pushing the two twin beds together, his arms wrapped around her small frame, listening to the insects moan as they tried to keep their bearings in the wind. Michael was fascinated by the idea of John clinging to his wife and his marriage while she got more and more distant until she left him for good. Why would any woman want to leave a man like John? He was not the most exciting person on earth, but he was trustworthy, available, kind, and handsome in a rudimentary way. Wasn’t that what women wanted?

  The cabins were sparsely decorated, but what decorations did line the walls reminded Michael of Nancy. One was a wooden board, painted to show smiling faces framing the words “Home Sweet Home.” For once Nancy would not feel oppressed by all the fanciness of his world but would be surrounded by what she loved. If John’s wife had been around, Michael knew there was no doubt she would have liked Nancy. They were both religious and simple-minded—basic, good people. They were all good in a way he felt he could never be, and he was beginning to envy their easy ways and straightforward desires. His own desires were intangible, located in a realm that was constantly out of reach.

  Michael was quickly learning that this was the very thing that had made him fail as a parent. To be unable to get strength from what surrounded him was a failing that weakened both himself and his offspring. If only he could have started over.

  He put down a deposit for a weekend three weeks away at the start of August, and he and John went on their way. As they were drivi
ng back, Michael asked if he could finally see where John lived.

  “Can we stop by? I’d like to see your place.”

  “It’s nothing compared to your house. It’s about the size of your garage. And I haven’t cleaned yet. I was going to do that later today.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Believe me, if I were still a bachelor, I’d keep my place messy. The only reason our place is clean is because of the ladies. My natural tendency is to keep things out of order.” That wasn’t even true, but he enjoyed saying it.

  They pulled up to the house, which stood on a plot of grass about a hundred yards from the other houses nearby. It wasn’t quite a house but resembled a hybrid of a house and a trailer. It was white, one level, and rested a little unevenly on the soil below it, so that the right side seemed a little higher than the left. Flower beds surrounded it, a cheery ring of purple, red, and yellow flowers. A flaglike banner waved in front of the door, depicting cartoonlike flowers, a cottage nestled in their midst.

  The inside of the place was quite different from the happy exterior; it was poorly lit and consisted of only two rooms, in addition to the eat-in kitchen and the bathroom. Michael was a little shocked when he first saw it, but the feeling quickly began to wear off. The two couches in the living room were a drab color, somewhere between olive green and beige, and the material was shabby, worn-out corduroy. The bedroom door was open, revealing a small bed next to a dresser, with a gold cross on the wall. An old green carpet covered the entire inside of the “house.” A couple of dishes sat in the sink.

  John was clearly embarrassed by his place and sat down in a resigned, uncomfortable posture. He offered Michael a beer from the fridge, and soon they settled into drinking. They talked about the plans for the tree house John was going to build for Max.

  “We should put it on the edge of the yard in that big sycamore tree. You know, I’ve been meaning to take a week off of work for a while now. I could help you build it,” Michael offered.