Never Too Late

by Robyn Carr

  Except, she did have a house. She had walked out of it with practically nothing, assuming that in the divorce settlement she would get to take some of the things she treasured plus a tidy settlement out of the equity, investments made during the marriage, plus half of the nest egg accrued during their sixteen years together. Roger screwed around, but he had been a successful businessman. He’d made plenty of money. It might’ve been shortsighted of her at the time, leaving so suddenly, but since seeing the blonde in her bed, the thought of that master bedroom she had once found so luxurious and comfortable had lost all its appeal.

  However, there was a guest room and bath on the ground level. She could live there, manage the downstairs easily with her crutches, and rely on Jason to get up and down the stairs as necessary.

  She could not live with Roger, though. And neither could her son. Just trying to get him to visit his father had so far proved impossible.

  If she’d thought it through, she could have suggested that she and Roger temporarily trade homes—he could have her town house, she could have the home she’d lived in for ten years. But thinking things through while lying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain had not been possible.

  She called Maggie and said, “I wonder if you could do me a favor. Would you be willing to suggest to Roger that he move out of our house and let me have it when I’m ready to live on my own again? That’s going to be real soon.”

  Maggie didn’t respond at once, but finally in a voice both surprised and pleased said, “I’d be more than happy to.”

  Maggie had always felt a bit underappreciated by her family. Here she was with her degree in law, a successful practice, an enormous number of important contacts, and they not only rarely asked her for help, they sometimes eschewed her advice. It was exactly the opposite to what other attorneys complained of. In fact, her own father was going to pay another lawyer to do his will and living trust. Sometimes it was insulting.

  Every time Clare began making noises about divorcing Roger, Maggie tried to counsel her. Clare had always been more than willing to complain about her marriage, but she was never prepared to discuss doing something about it. But the accident had changed everything. Clare needed Maggie to deal with the insurance company, the lease on the town house, and now this. Maggie was secretly thrilled. And she was going to do right by her sister.

  She took a large chunk out of her busy day, putting paying clients on hold, to track down Roger. She went to his office in downtown Breckenridge, not really expecting to find him there. Roger liked to be out and about and did most of his business, and his running around, all over this town and those nearby. At least that was what she expected—to have to chase him down at a restaurant or client’s home. But his secretary reported him home sick.

  Hah! she thought. She decided her trip to the house would be a mere formality, for he would not be there. His illness was an excuse given to the secretary, surely. Roger was probably in some no-tell motel. Or…Maybe with Clare pinned down at their dad’s he was using the house as some trysting place. All the better. She’d love to catch him in the act and make him feel like the low-life he was.

  So she rang the bell and banged forcefully on the door.

  It opened quickly. “Maggie?” he said in question.

  She did a double take. There stood Roger looking worse than she’d ever seen him. His clothes looked as though he’d slept in them, his thick mane of golden hair was on the greasy side and his eyes were red rimmed.

  “Jesus, Roger, you look like hell,” she said in surprise.

  “Yeah? Well, what did you expect?” he asked, turning and walking back into the house. He headed down the hall toward the family room where the television could be heard softly droning.

  She was left to follow, thinking this was an odd twist. Roger was handsome, damn him. And he pampered his looks, especially that Robert Redford hair. He was fussy about his clothes being both stylish and perfectly kept. And what was with the watery, pink eyes? Maybe he really was sick. He had that look of a killer cold.

  She caught up with him just as he was sinking into the sofa and picking up a drink of amber liquid that was not apple juice. For a moment she just stood there, looking like a lawyer. She wore one of her many navy-blue suits, pumps, and held her briefcase. She glanced at her watch—two-thirty. For all his crimes, he was not an irresponsible drinker.

  Roger sipped. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “You’re a wreck. And you’re drinking in the afternoon?”

  “Things haven’t been exactly stress free around here,” he said, taking a final sip and putting down the empty glass.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” he bellowed. “My wife damn near dies, then when she does recover she won’t even talk to me, my son doesn’t want to spend time with me, and what am I supposed to do? Huh? Huh?”

  “Oh damn it, you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. I want to be drunk, but I’m hopelessly sober.”

  Maggie walked into the room, but she didn’t want to get too close to him. He was disgusting at the moment. So she took a superior position at the breakfast bar, leaning more than sitting on the high stool. “You and Clare are separated and she tells me there will be a divorce. This isn’t news. I’ve seen you probably a dozen times since she moved out. You were holding up as your usual perky self.” And then she added sarcastically, “Like you always do during your separations.”

  “Oh yeah? Well this is a little different, don’t you think? She’s hurt! I want to take care of her. Help her. And Jason.” Then he rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head dejectedly.

  “Look, Roger—I know what happened between you and Clare the night of the accident, so don’t get all pitiful on me. You were doing some blonde when Clare stopped by the house.”

  He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes mean. “I’m not at all surprised you know about that. Clare usually can’t wait to air my indiscretions.”

  “Don’t make this about Clare! I don’t believe she did anything wrong.”

  “We were separated. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. I didn’t think it was against the rules. Besides, don’t you see how that makes it even worse? I keep letting her down, over and over. All I want is a chance to help her. To make amends.”

  Breckenridge was a small town. It rested in the valley a mere half hour from Carson City, just eleven miles beneath Lake Tahoe and the snowy peaks of the Sierras. There were only fifteen thousand people though a lot of tourists passed through on a regular basis en route to Reno, Tahoe or the Capitol. Residents ran into each other all the time and it was a damn hard place to keep a secret. Roger, despite his shabby marital habits, happened to be popular. He was extremely social. He was a respected insurance guy; he took good care of his clients. Sometimes too good, especially the women.

  But this was a Roger she’d never seen before. He looked pathetic. She wished she could feel sorry for him.

  “Well, Roger, as it happens you can help her. That’s why I’m here. She sent me on an errand.” He lifted his head. “Clare’s been with my dad, as you no doubt already know, and she can’t handle the town house she was leasing, so we let it go. The stairs, you know. She’s going to be struggling with things like that for at least a couple more months.” He dropped his head as though in agony. She tried to ignore him but found herself saying, “Hey, she’s doing very well! Her physical therapy is coming along great! But—and you can probably understand this—she doesn’t want to stay with Dad much longer. I think maybe Dotty is driving her nuts. She wants to be on her own. And she just isn’t up to searching for and renting a single-level house. So she asked me to ask you if you’ll give her the house.”

  This time when he lifted his head, he actually had a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “The house?” he echoed.

  “Uh-huh. She can use the downstairs guest room and bath. She won’t have to go upstairs at all. And Jason can have his old room. It’s already furnished, mostly by Clar
e, in fact. It’ll be perfect.”

  He got to his feet and began tucking in his shirt. He ran a hand through his hair. “She wants to move home?”

  “Well,” she said, “not exactly, Roger. She’d like you to move out.”

  “What? Did she say that?”

  “Oh yes. Very specifically.”

  “But I can help her! I can take care of her!”

  Maggie straightened from the stool. “Roger, that’s not going to happen. She’s not interested in sharing a house with you again. Now, it’s much easier for you to find your own place…You’re going to have to do that eventually, you know.”

  “I’m not giving her the house unless she lets me stay, too. I’ll stay upstairs. I’ll be able to help out.”

  “Okay, now look,” she said sternly. “I don’t think she wants to expedite the divorce, given her condition, so let’s not push it. All right? Here are the choices—you can refuse to vacate and we’ll just proceed with the divorce settlement in which she will naturally be asking for the house along with other things, or you can be a good sport and let Clare and Jason move back in while you reside elsewhere. Those are the only two options.”

  “She said that?”

  No, she hadn’t. “Yes, exactly,” Maggie lied. Well, Clare had implied it. What she’d said was that it was either Dad’s or Roger’s house without Roger. That business about expediting the divorce was along the lines of Lawyer’s Privilege.

  Roger hung his head again. He picked up his glass and walked over to the wet bar. He poured himself another slug and threw it back. Then he turned to Maggie. “Will you ask her one more time? If she’ll let me take care of her?”

  This was too funny. Roger taking care of anyone. To hear Clare tell it, Roger couldn’t seem to ferry his own dirty shorts to the laundry bin, much less do something for another human being. He excelled at three things—looking good, selling insurance and banging women who were not his wife.

  Clare had said, however, Roger could be very supportive when Clare was in need, though those times were very infrequent. Nonetheless…

  “I will ask her one more time.”

  “Thank you, Maggie.”

  “God, you are so pathetic. Snap out of it, will you?”

  “Maggie, I know you have no respect for me, but I love her, I do. I’m devoted to her. I’m a stupid idiot, I’ve treated her so badly, but honestly, the thought of losing her in that accident changed everything for me.”

  “You’ve got to stop drinking, take a shower and go to work,” she said.

  “But you’ll ask her?”

  “I said I would. And if the answer is still no?”

  Head drop again. He turned and faced the bar, leaning on braced hands. “She can have anything she wants,” he said.

  She stood there watching his back for a moment, but he wasn’t turning around. “Thanks, Roger. I’ll be in touch.”

  Maggie went back to her office for the rest of the afternoon. She could have called Clare and asked her the loaded question, but wanted to be face-to-face in case Clare revisited earlier fits of indecision and even thought about giving Roger another chance. Maggie considered lying and not asking the question. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the possibility of that conniving Roger telling on her. But, she fully intended to talk Clare off the ledge if she had to.

  So she went to Clare.

  “You are looking so much better,” she remarked. And Clare really was. Those first few weeks after the accident she had become so thin, pale and wasted looking, her face in the constant grimace of pain. But that was easing now and she’d not only put on a couple of pounds, she was able to primp a bit. Her hair was shiny, her face had color.

  “Thanks. I think I’m going to live.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “I can’t get through the night yet, but as long as I get a nap, my days are pretty manageable. Did you talk to Roger?”

  They were seated in the family room. Jason was at the kitchen table with his schoolbook open while Dotty chopped vegetables at the counter. When Clare asked the question, everyone froze and silence hung in the air for a moment.

  “Yes. He made me promise to ask you if he could stay and take care of you.”

  Jason slammed his book and shoved back the kitchen chair as he stood. He looked as though he was about to storm out of the room.

  “No,” Clare said without even glancing at Jason. “No, he has to leave. Did you tell him that?”

  “Yes.”

  Jason looked into the family room and met his mother’s eyes. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. He picked up the closed book and left the kitchen, not angry but mollified. Dotty went back to her chopping without comment, but there was no question she was listening raptly.

  “And what did he say?”

  “That you can have whatever you want.”

  “Well. That was nice of him. I think.”

  Maggie leaned forward and whispered so that Dotty wouldn’t hear. “You should see him. He’s a mess.”

  “Roger?”

  “Dirty, greasy, wrinkled, drinking bourbon. Neat.”

  “No kidding?”

  “A broken man,” she said. Then sitting back she wondered what she was doing. It was dangerous to paint him that way and risk Clare’s sympathy.

  “Ah,” Clare said. “The Broken Man game. Been there, done that.”

  “Is that how he gets?” Maggie asked.

  “Ritualistically,” Clare confirmed.

  “But I’ve seen him here and there during your separations—I never noticed this side of him.”

  “I suspect he can put on a good face around his friends and clients. But I’ve seen him miserable and pitiful. Why do you think I always get suckered into one more chance?”

  “Well, I knew you felt sorry for him and caved, but…”

  “But you thought I was just stupid? Well, partly. But mostly it’s that Roger is so good at convincing me he’s sorry, that he’s learned his lesson and he’ll never do it again. I think I’ve recovered from that temptation now.”

  Maggie stiffened. “You mean it’s all an act?”

  “Actually, it’s not an act. I think he really goes through it—the remorse, the guilt, the shame. The depression. The problem is, it has yet to modify his behavior.”

  “God, that accident. It really did shake up your thinking. You finally get him.”

  “Sort of,” she said. “Probably it’s more that I finally get me.”

  Maggie settled back in the family room, relaxed and had a glass of wine. Clare’s was apple juice—the wine didn’t go well with pain meds. Maggie made time for the family gatherings but the rest of her life was always a rush; she always had a million things to do. Now she seemed more at ease, hanging out at her dad’s during the workweek, than she had in quite a while. Clare wondered if it was because they were finally on the same page about her divorce.

  Then Sarah came home, a little early, as she was doing these days. It was almost as though she was desperate to make sure Clare was all right, that the family remained intact. She was clearly delighted to see Maggie. Before the accident the sisters tried to carve out time for an after-work cocktail at least every other week. “Oh boy,” she said. “Happy hour.” She poured herself a glass of wine and joined them.

  Sarah was wearing paint-stained overalls. Underneath was a lime-green sweater, the sleeves so baggy that when she pushed them up to her elbows, they just slid down again. Maggie noticed that she had a piece of duct tape holding her glasses together. “You didn’t have to dress up for us,” Maggie said.

  “The paint doesn’t care what I wear,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just dropping by.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll be glad when we can get back to our regular happy hours.”

  “It’s going to be a while, I’m afraid,” Clare said.

  “Sooner than you think,” Sarah said, giving Clare’s hand an affe
ctionate pat.

  “Tell her about Roger, Maggie,” Clare said. “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Roger’s falling apart,” Maggie said.

  “Really?” Sarah asked, leaning forward.

  “I went to see him about getting Clare back in her house and caught him drinking in the early afternoon. He’s miserable. He’s greasy and wrinkled and pathetic.”

  Sarah grinned. “What’s he pathetic about? Can’t he get a date?”

  “He wants to take care of Clare,” Maggie said.

  Sarah sipped her wine and leaned back on the sofa. “Tell him to stick it up his ass. We can take care of Clare.”

  “Sarah!” Maggie said, laughing.

  This, Clare thought, was why she loved her sisters so. Because they were dedicated, irreverent and sometimes hilarious. What more could a crippled, almost-forty-year-old, almost divorcée need?

  When Maggie had gone and Sarah was busy in the kitchen, Clare crutched her way to Jason’s room and tapped on the door.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She found him lying on the bed with a Game Boy hovering over his face.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  “As long as it’s not about him,” he returned, his eyes glued to the game.

  Clare entered slowly, careful not to get a crutch snagged on something left on the floor—clothes, shoes, books. She could get around pretty well now and was using the crutches only to give herself assistance, to keep the pressure off her pelvis. Walking no longer caused horrid pain but the ache crept back in as the day wore on.

  She slowly lowered herself to his bed and he moved his long legs over to accommodate her, but he stayed focused on his game. She gently pulled it out of his hands. He released it and sat up, leaning against the headboard. “It’s about him. I need a favor.”

  “Aww.”

  “Jason, the accident—it not only shook up my body, it shook up my mind. I can see that I need to make changes in my life, big changes. I have to heal my body, and also I have to heal my spirit. I have to get a life. And I need you to lighten up. I know you’re mad. I’m not going to try to talk you out of it—you can work out those issues with your counselor. But I can’t get better while I’m constantly faced with your rage. I can’t move on. Understand?”