Between Husbands and Friends

by Thayer, Nancy

  The telephone rings. I answer it; it’s Martin Reid, the town counsel, wanting to speak to Max.

  Annoyed, Max takes the phone. “Right. Yes, pneumonia. No, I won’t be able to make it tonight. Roland Cobb will speak in my place. I understand, Martin. Martin, look. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  After that the phone rings continually. Almost as soon as Max disconnects from one person, another calls.

  “This is ridiculous,” Max says. “Don’t they understand they’re calling a hospital room?”

  “I could tell them you’re not available,” I suggest.

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Max lifts the phone off the cradle and stuffs it under a pillow.

  When the nurse arrives with Jeremy’s dinner, Max takes his cell phone out into the hall while I sit with Jeremy, cajoling him into trying a bite of the mashed potatoes, another spoonful of Jell-O. He eats listlessly, and falls back asleep when he’s through.

  Max is still on his cell phone, talking in terse determined tones. I phone the Cobbs’ house and ask to speak to my daughter.

  “Hi, darling. How are you?”

  Margaret’s voice is shaky; she cannot say it fast enough. “Is Jeremy going to die?”

  “No, no, sweetie. He’s not that sick. He’s got pneumonia, and they can get antibiotics into his system more quickly when he’s in the hospital. They have an IV in his arm. He’s asleep right now. He’ll need a lot of rest. You can come visit him tomorrow if you want.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s here with us. He’s on his cell phone right now.”

  “Is he going to miss town meeting?”

  “Yes. Max wants to be with Jeremy tonight.” For a moment we’re both quiet, assimilating this startling fact. “How was school?”

  “Okay.” Her voice is lighter.

  “Are you going to spend the night at the Cobbs’?”

  “Yeah. They’ve given me their guest room. It’s awesome. I’ve got my own bathroom, plus my own TV. Andrea says I can watch all I want.”

  I respond like a normal, dutiful mother. “That’s great, but don’t stay up all night and forget to do your homework.”

  “Yeah, Mom, like I’m going to turn into an airhead.”

  “Can the Cobbs take you home tomorrow to get clean clothes?”

  “Gee, what a good idea! We hadn’t thought of that.” With each second my abrasive, testy, secure adolescent returns to me and to herself. “Andrea already drove me over. I’ve packed up a bag.”

  In the background someone speaks. Margaret says, “Mom, we’ve got to go. I mean the Cobbs are going to town meeting and I’m going with them.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow then, sweetie. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom. Kiss Jeremy for me. And Dad.”

  By seven the phone calls have stopped. Town meeting has begun. Jeremy watches television and dozes, often wakened by his cough.

  “Let’s make a plan,” Max suggests quietly. “We can’t both spend the night with him. We’ve got two weeks ahead of us and Margaret to think about, not to mention work.”

  “I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “You were here all day. Don’t you want a break?”

  I hug myself. “I just feel like I need to be with him tonight. His first night in the hospital. While he’s so sick.”

  “All right, then. Why don’t you go home now and get some things, toothbrush, nightgown—”

  “Gallon of Scotch,” I joke. “Yeah. That’s a good idea. If he wakes, tell him I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  This day has been so filled with terrors and wonders and strangeness that I feel as if entire months have passed. People could have landed on Mars for all I know. There could be a new president. I ride the elevator to the main floor, follow signs back to the entrance, and it’s as if I’m leaving the heart of a labyrinth, walking out from an enclosed, claustrophobic maze into the real world, an open space full of lights and noise and good ordinary life. But I know the hospital will become more and more real to me.

  The lobby is not as full as it was during the day. A bearded man sprawls in a corner chair, reading a book, looking as if he’s waiting for a plane. An Indian family huddles together, chairs pulled into a circle, talking intensely, the women’s saris sparkling with gold and silver threads. A plump older woman in vivid yellow sweatpants exits Au Bon Pain, wearily lugging a heavy shopping bag across the floor. Magazines to read while she sits by someone’s bed? Knitting?

  I get my car keys from the valet and, pushing through the revolving doors, I step out into the night. The air is cool, and it’s raining. I stand for a minute, dumbfounded, surprised by the fresh scent of the wet evening, brought right into the moment by the small drops of rain pelting my head, my feet on the hard cement pavement. I hurry across the sidewalk toward the parking garage.

  A handsome man, tall and lean in a Burberry raincoat, strides toward me.

  It’s Chip.

  His face is grave. “Lucy.” He reaches for my hands.

  I step back. “What are you doing here?” When I look up at him, rain splatters my face.

  “Roland told me that Jeremy’s sick.”

  “Yes, but aren’t you supposed to be at town meeting?” Rain streams down all around us, sinking into our clothes, sizzling when it hits the pavement.

  With a brusque movement of his hand, he brushes that away. “Someone else can deal with it. How is Jeremy?”

  “He has pneumonia, but he’s stable. It’s that the cystic fibrosis complicates everything.”

  “I brought him a present.” He’s got a box in an F.A.O. Schwarz bag. “We should get out of the rain before it gets wet.”

  I put my hand on Chip’s arm, forestalling any forward motion. “Only family members are allowed to see him tonight.”

  Chip looks down at my hand, puzzled, then looks directly at me and holds my gaze. “I believe I qualify.”

  I gasp, dumbfounded. When I find my voice, I stutter, “Well, uh, Max is with Jeremy now. And Jeremy’s really very sick.”

  “Max is with Jeremy.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s staying with you?”

  “Yes.” Rain runs down my face, feeling like tears.

  “And that’s what you want?”

  “What I want—” My throat closes. I want too much, I think wildly, I want the impossible. “Yes. It’s what I want.”

  “Let’s get out of the rain.”

  Chip takes my arm and leads me across the street and into the glassed foyer of the parking garage. It’s warmer in here, quiet and orderly, with lights shining calmly on the stairways and doors.

  Chip gently pushes my wet hair away from my face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just so worried about Jeremy.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I don’t know. Just let me go, I guess, so I can hurry home and get my things and get back to him.”

  “All right. I can do that.” Chip stands a moment, looking terribly sad. “I do need to tell you one thing, Lucy.”

  “What?”

  Chip clears his throat. I feel something very much like danger in the air. Outside in the street cars pass, their lights flashing and winking, their tires sighing on the wet pavement. The street light turns yellow, red, green. Rain streaks the windows, making the shadows fall over us in arabesques.

  “According to Massachusetts law, the natural father of a child has paramount rights to the child. It’s very difficult for the nonnatural father to establish his claim on a child.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying that by law Jeremy is my child. By law the fact that Max is living with you in what is called a parental relationship does not give him the rights of custody.” He speaks quietly, but with authority, standing there in his polished wing-tip shoes, his elegant raincoat, his blue eyes dark with emotion.

  I’m so surprised I laugh. “Chip, you’
ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m not. I’m telling you, Lucy, that if I took this to court, I would win full or partial custody of Jeremy.”

  “But you wouldn’t do this. To Jeremy. To Max. To me!”

  “Jeremy is my—”

  “Jeremy is Max’s child. You know that. You’ve seen him with Max. Come on, Chip, have some compassion. We’ve got so much to go through with Jeremy’s condition, it’s going to be hellish. Don’t make it worse by trying to take Jeremy away.”

  “You think that Max is the best father for Jeremy.”

  “Yes. There’s a powerful connection between them, Chip. It may not be ‘natural,’ but it is real. They are father and son.”

  Chip doesn’t move, but it seems that a light in his eyes dims. He takes a deep breath.

  “You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Something catches in my throat. I want to tell him more. I desired this man. I loved him. In a way, I love him still. I regret all the pain we’ve caused, but I will never regret that desire, and what it brought to us. But my son waits for me and right now that’s all that matters. “I need to go home.”

  “Lucy … I don’t know how to say this, but if you need any money for Jeremy … I want to help. If I can help financially …”

  “Thank you. I think we’ll be okay.” I start up the stairs toward the car.

  “Lucy?” Chip calls. “Later? In a year or two? When Jeremy’s older? I do want to tell him that I’m his genetic father.”

  I stare down at him. “Yes, of course. Max thinks so, too. Just not yet, Chip, please.”

  “Okay. Okay. I want to be clear about this, Lucy. Because you want me to, I’m backing off.” In the shadowy blue light of the foyer, with the rain-streaked glass behind him, with his raincoat hanging in folds past his knees, Chip looks like a creature underwater, almost like a merman, and I realize how he, too, is a creature caught between worlds, a man who cannot be a father to his natural son.

  “Thank you.” This time I go up the steps without looking back. I do not hear steps coming after me. I find my car, unlock it, climb in. I drive to the exit, pay the ticket, then steer my car out into the night, into the falling rain.

  The house smells like apples. The answering machine blinks imperiously. Midnight and Cinnamon materialize when I turn on the kitchen light, insinuating themselves around my ankles, scolding me with stereophonic mews for my absence. I dump great cups of dry food into their bowls and give them each a plate of canned food which they set upon ardently, purring and waving their tails as they eat. I take the time for a quick shower, grateful for all the bourgeois comforts that refresh my body, the sharp scent of the soap, the grassy green drift of shampoo. I hurriedly dress in clean clothes and pack a bag to take to the hospital. The house is unnaturally quiet with everyone gone; I’m not surprised that the cats are following me from room to room.

  “Max will be home late, kids,” I tell them.

  Cinnamon protests by rolling on her back, showing me her seductive stomach. How, she suggests, looking at me upside down, could you leave someone as gorgeous as me, alone? I stop to pet her luxuriously striped silky fur, then hurry back to my car, back to Children’s Hospital.

  By the time I’ve parked and traced my path back through the hospital, it’s after eleven, and Jeremy is asleep. The lights are off by the bed, but enough light illuminates the room so that Max, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, can read the brochures I read earlier.

  He looks up at me, his face sad, weary. “How are things at home?”

  “There are about a million messages on the answering machine. I didn’t even bother to listen to them. How’s Jeremy?”

  “The nurse was in about thirty minutes ago. She said that his temperature’s down.”

  “Good.” I stare down at my sleeping son.

  Max stretches and looks at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.” He yawns and pulls on his jacket. “I’ll go into the office in the morning, then come in. I should be back here by ten.” When he looks at Jeremy, his face is tender, full of emotion. Then he inhales deeply and straightens his shoulders, steeling himself to leave.

  I walk with him to the door of the room. It’s as if this hospital bedroom has already become a kind of home for us, like a tiny apartment.

  “All right then,” Max says. When he looks at me, the tenderness has left his face, replaced by a cold flatness. This is how he looks when he’s depressed, and his jaw bristles with a day’s growth of beard. It’s that beard that sets me off, and that look. “Good night.”

  It’s the way he walks away from me without kissing me, without touching me, without seeing me.

  My heart begins to race double time. Something explodes in my belly, something hot and bitter rises in my throat. I can’t breathe. Hot blood drums at my ears, yet my fingers have grown cold. I can scarcely stand.

  A panic attack? Yes. This is what my panic attacks are about.

  “No,” I say. I don’t shout it, but I don’t whisper it either, and at the far end of the hall a nurse looks at me sharply.

  Max turns.

  “No,” I say, more softly, but my passion makes the one word vibrate. Leaving Jeremy’s room, I stride out into the hall. Taking Max by the arm, I pull him away from the medical unit and into the open corridor where elevators and telephones line the walls. “No, Max, you can’t leave like that. I won’t let you.”

  “What are you talking a—”

  “You said you’ll stay with us.”

  “I did. And I meant it.”

  “Do you think you’re doing us a favor?”

  Max runs his hand through his dark curls. “Come on, Lucy. I’m beat.”

  “I don’t want to live like this, Max.”

  “Lucy, the boy is—”

  “I’m not talking about Jeremy. I’m talking about you. I don’t want to live with you acting as if you’re doing us a great big stinking favor with your presence.”

  “Lucy, this is hardly the time or the place—”

  “This is absolutely the time and the place!” I’m not yelling, but I’m shaking all over, and my voice trembles. “If you stay with us, Max, then damn it, you’ve got to do it right. You can’t hang around Jeremy and Margaret and me with the dead fish, hangdog face you’ve given us before.”

  “Come on, Lucy, I can’t help it if I’m miserable.”

  “No. But you can show us your misery! You can let us help you deal with it! And Max, you’ve got to see a psychiatrist and get some antidepressants!”

  “Lucy, it’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is necessary. I mean it, Max. You’ve got to change. If you want to stay with us, you’ve got to really want to stay. And you’ve got to show us you want to stay. You’ve got to show me you want to stay. This is going to be hell we’re headed into with Jeremy. This is only the beginning, and it’s going to be scary and heart-wrenching and the most difficult thing I’ve ever even heard of. But you know what? I can do it, and I can do it without you, and I’d rather do it without you than with you dragging around depressed. It’s too hard on me, Max, I get lonely, and afraid and full of a useless anger, and the children and I feel like you love everyone at the paper and don’t care for us at all—”

  “That’s not true. That’s never true.”

  “All right, but that’s the way it seems to us. Max, can I tell you what it’s like when you’re depressed? It’s not just that you don’t talk to us. You don’t even look at us. You snap to attention whenever anyone from the paper calls, but when we try to talk to you, you stare into space, or you slam out of the house or you hide in your study, and you pretend you don’t hear us, or maybe you really don’t hear us, and that’s pretty damned scary as well as insulting, don’t you think?”

  I’m pacing now, and the words are rising up out of me as if carried on a geyser that’s been capped and covered over for too long. Miserably, Max bows his head; he looks like he’d cover his ears with his hands if he could.


  “Do you know how I feel when you’re depressed? When I have to ask Roland how you are because you won’t tell me, and Roland is kind, he understands, he’s not like some of the secretaries or bright young girl reporters, those disingenuous little hypocrites who make it clear that they understand you when your old rhino-hided wife can’t, who smile at me with such fucking compassion in their eyes that it makes me want to vomit on their shoes! When you’re depressed, Max, you’re like a black hole in our house, and everything revolves around you, all our lives absolutely stop while we try to figure out what’s going on with you and how serious it is and how long it’s going to last and whether or not by any miraculous chance one of us, your son or your daughter or your wife, could possibly matter enough to get through to you. It’s why I turned to Chip, for God’s sake!”

  At the far end of the corridor, a pair of nurses eye us. Max and I glare at each other, the air between us absolutely shimmering with tension.

  After a moment, Max rubs the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know,” he says softly, “I’m sorry. I’ll … I’ll try.”

  I turn my back on the nurses and modulate my voice. “Try. What does that mean?”

  “It means … all right. I’ll see someone about antidepressants.”

  “You promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “This week.”

  “When I find time …”

  “No! Not when you find time. Max, I’m not waiting. I need your help now. I need your love. I need your passion. It’s the only way I’m going to make it through this. For God’s sake, Max, we have to love each other if we’re going to love Jeremy and Margaret.” I can’t believe I have any more tears left in me, but I discover that I do. My face is suddenly wet, and tears fall on my shirt, on my hands.

  Max squints, holding back his own tears. “I was here tonight,” he reminds me. “I skipped town meeting to be here.”

  “That’s good. I know. I’m so glad. I’m so—impressed. But I need more, Max. I need your love. I need your touch.”

  He looks down, and the slant of his head, the way his features droop, making him look old and vulnerable, tugs at my heart.