by Warren Adler
She felt a sob begin deep in her chest and turned away to hide her emotions, lifting a cup of tepid coffee to her lips. Her hands shook, betraying her, and he helped her put down the cup. Then he kissed her hands.
“You don’t understand, darling. I’m in this all the way.”
“You’re almost too good to be true, Peter,” she whispered.
“I have my bad side,” he said gently. “And I am frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing another round,” he said quickly. Deliberately, she did not convey her own fear in that regard.
“I think we’ve both got to forget the past,” she said simply. She began to feel better.
“You said it, Frances. I declare last weekend to be the first moment of our lives. Okay?” She let the question hang.
He kissed her hands again, then made a warming gesture with his own.
“So you’re booked for the weekend? You and the little guy?”
“Just give me a little more time.” She made it sound cute and not standoffish.
“You got it,” he winked. “Before the day is over?”
“I promise.”
“I couldn’t bear to go home alone without knowing.”
“Oh, you’re overdramatizing, Peter,” she said good-naturedly. “It’s just that—well, I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“Aha, a martyr type.”
“Or for me.”
She smiled shyly.
“And that boy of yours, he does sleep,” he said.
“Soundly.” She felt the heat in her face.
But when Molly called later in the day to apologize for Charlie, her stomach began to churn.
“You know your father-in-law. More bark than bite. I can tell you, he’s very contrite today. He really doesn’t want to spoil anything for you, Frances. You know what he’s like. And he doesn’t want you to get so mad at him that it will hurt his relationship with Tray. So let’s let bygones be bygones.”
“I don’t need any aggravation myself, Molly.”
“So just file it away.”
“Consider it filed.”
“Next weekend we’ll have a barbecue. Maybe have some of Tray’s friends over from kindergarten. Make it a party.”
“I don’t—” Somehow, she could not find the will to respond in full.
“You’ll see, Charlie won’t bat an eye. Ever again.”
Fat chance, she thought bitterly.
After she hung up, she tried to concentrate on her work, but it was futile. She felt weighed down, stuffed with indignation and frustration. How dare they do this to me? she cried within herself. Without realizing it, she had brought the heel of her fist down on her desk. It was not a particularly attention-getting gesture, but Peter was watching. Sensing his gaze, she turned toward his office and managed a smile.
Then she nodded.
He pantomimed the acceptance of her message by clapping his hands soundlessly.
“I love you,” his lips said.
“I need you,” she responded in kind.
2
THE weekend was an exercise in thwarted expectations. Tray was moody and disoriented by the abrupt change in his routine. He kept asking, “When are we going to Grampa and Gramma’s?” Frances offered evasive answers. Peter tried valiantly to deflect the child’s interest and gain his attention. He brought toys and games and went through a complete repertoire of performances to gain the boy’s confidence. Nothing worked. To make matters worse, it rained and they stayed indoors.
“I’m sorry about this,” Frances said after they had tucked Tray into bed in the room across the hall from Peter’s. They both kissed and hugged him. His only response was: “Will we go to Gramma and Grampa’s in the morning?”
“No apologies,” he told her, drawing her into his arms. “I’m very tenacious.”
“I hope so.”
But resentment and disappointment had a dampening effect and, although they clung together like new lovers throughout the night, her mind wandered and her concentration wavered. She felt inert, suffocated by the influence of her in-laws, a condition that had marked her marriage and now threatened her future.
As she had expected, they had not taken kindly to her announcement that she was spending the weekend with Peter. She had told them the truth—lying always made her anxious. She had deliberately called when she knew that Charlie would still be at the plant.
“Do you think that’s wise, dear?” Molly asked in her typically gentle rhetorical manner. It was the way she had dealt with Chuck, always with minimal success.
“I think it’s necessary,” Frances had responded. “And comforting. The man wants to know my child.”
“What should I tell Charlie?”
“The truth,” she said boldly.
“He’ll be very upset.”
“I really can’t help that.” She was thankful for the safety of the telephone.
“And next weekend?”
“We’ll see.”
“He did promise to make Tray a tire swing and take him for a ride in the new wagon.”
“I know.”
Beads of perspiration had popped out under her hair. She felt the tug of some powerful barbed hook, the same sensation, she imagined, that a landed fish felt thrashing impotently to free itself from the line. Now, in Peter’s bed, she felt a similar sensation.
“What is it?” he had asked. Her restlessness had awakened him.
“Odd thoughts,” she whispered, stroking his arm, placating his concern.
“Like what?”
She hesitated for a long time. At first, he did not intrude on her silence. Why should she inject this discordant note into what seemed like a very promising relationship? Perhaps it was wrong to have brought Tray.
“It would have been better to come alone.”
“That would have been a cop-out,” he acknowledged, kissing her earlobe. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to come to grips with it.”
“It could be too soon.”
“Am I pressing?”
“In some ways.”
She did not elaborate, fearful that further explanations might endanger their still-fragile bond. Instead, she offered a roundabout compromise. He had to know, after all, the real reason for her anxiety. Do not misinterpret this, she begged him silently.
“My ex-husband’s parents,” she said, surprised at the way she now expressed the relationship. “My father-in-law especially. He doesn’t think this is proper.”
“This not proper?” He kissed her lips and caressed her. There seemed to be an element of defiance in the gesture. “Who is he to say?” he asked firmly.
“He thinks it’s too soon after Chuck’s death.” She took a deep breath. “And bringing Tray here . . .”
“You mean there are supposed to be time limits on human emotions?” he asked irritably.
“In Charlie’s mind it’s a question of what he views as right and wrong.”
“He’s got his nerve, Frances. He doesn’t own you.”
“I know what he’s going through.”
“It’s what you’re going through—we’re going through—that counts.”
“Of course. I know that.”
“He has absolutely no right to make you feel this way.”
“Of course I know that. But he still makes me feel as if I’m kicking a hurt dog.”
“You couldn’t do that, darling. Not you.”
“And Tray’s grown very attached to them, especially to Charlie. My father-in—my ex-husband’s father.” Inexplicably, she felt embarrassed, and she rolled on her side away from him.
“It’s over, Frances,” Peter said. She felt his breath on the back of her neck. “I’m here now.” Reaching back, she touched him.
“I know,” she said. “And I’m afraid of their spoiling it.”
“Never. I’ll never let them do that to us,” he said belligerently, which frightened her. She was beginning to feel the growing strength of her attachmen
t to him. It was enveloping her, changing her, becoming central to her life.
“You wanted to know,” she said, turning toward him again.
“I’ll always want to know what concerns you, and I’m grateful for your sharing it. Isn’t that what a real relationship is all about?”
For the first time in years, she did not feel alone.
Still, there was no sense in not trying to make things right with Molly and Charlie. She did not go out of the way to aggravate the situation. The next weekend, she left Tray with his grandparents and spent the weekend alone with Peter. By then, although she avoided any confrontation with Charlie, Frances found a grudging acceptance on his part through her conversations with Molly.
“He doesn’t like it, but he’s not ranting and raving,” Molly told her.
“That’s sensible.”
“And weekends with Tray really help.”
It also helped to be alone with Peter without the pressure of his trying to make friends with Tray.
“Everything in due time,” he assured her.
Soon any caution about discussing the future evaporated. They openly discussed marriage and a life together.
“It will not be easy taking on another man’s child.”
“He’ll be my child. Our child.”
She was growing less and less reticent about expressing her secret fears.
“I just worry about his accepting the change.”
“Kids thrive in a loving home,” he said emphatically. “He’ll adapt. I promise you.”
“Hopefully, we’ll have other kids. He won’t be lonely. Neither will I.”
“Or I.”
Not to be lonely, she thought. Was it possible at last?
She went up to Syracuse to visit Peter’s folks and found them kind and, unlike her first experience with potential in-laws, grateful.
“Just love my son and be wonderful,” his mother told her. His father, a doctor, nodded happily and, after the weekend, they both embraced her and promised that they would be the best grandparents in the world to Tray and whoever else dropped in. The rapport she felt was beyond her wildest hopes.
Yet the problem of Molly and Charlie nagged at her. She had kept Molly partially abreast of what was happening, and Tray continued to spend weekends with them, which silenced any blatant protest on Charlie’s part.
She held back from telling them that she and Peter had set a date and had planned a wedding in Peter’s parents’ home in October, which was less than three weeks away. There was, they had reasoned, no point in being hypocrites. On weekends they lived as man and wife. Nor did she tell them that Peter had already put a down payment on a big house in Columbia and was planning to adopt Tray. One step at a time, she told herself.
To break the news, Frances persuaded Molly to allow Peter and her to “drop in” on Sunday during one of the weekends that Tray spent with his grandparents.
Peter had mildly protested the subterfuge.
“They’re going to have to meet you someday,” Frances told him. “Not for approval,” she added hastily. “That doesn’t really matter. Just for the record.”
“Only if it’s important to you.”
“I just want to eliminate potential problems.”
“As long as they don’t aggravate you or come between us.”
“Never,” she said firmly. “Call it biting the bullet.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be the soul of diplomacy.”
“You’ll be perfect.”
Molly asked them to come in the late afternoon. She told them that she would put up some fried chicken and potato salad and offer a casual dinner, continuing the charade, she added, to make Charlie think she had just thrown some things together at the spur of the moment.
It was a beautiful fall day, with just enough nip to bring out the roses in Tray’s cheeks. He was out in the yard with his grandfather, who was teaching him the intricacies of using a catcher’s mitt.
“So this is Peter,” Molly said. A tic in her jaw betrayed her nervousness.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. Waters,” Peter said awkwardly, as if it was a line he had rehearsed. Molly brought them into the den and offered beer.
“That would be great,” Frances replied, accepting for both of them, although Peter detested beer. They had taken seats at either end of the couch. No displays of affection, Frances had warned. Molly went up to the kitchen. They heard her open the door and call out to Charlie and Tray.
“Mommy’s here.”
Soon Tray, flushed and happy, rushed into the room and into his mother’s arms.
“I’m a catcher now,” he squealed.
“And say hello to Uncle Peter.”
Tray politely allowed himself to be kissed by Peter.
“Grampa says you’re not my real uncle.”
“He’s right about that,” Peter said, affecting a patient smile. He looked at Frances, who shook her head. Molly arrived with a tray of filled beer steins and a bowl of peanuts. Gray-faced and under obvious duress, Charlie followed her into the den. Frances noted the scrap of black crepe pinned to his shirt.
“This is Peter Graham, Charlie,” Frances said pleasantly.
“Frances’s friend,” Molly interjected superfluously.
Peter put out his hand, which Charlie took with a less than firm grip. He took a beer and sat down on a chair. Molly had obviously given him some preparation, although he could not hide his awkwardness.
“That’s a great collection of guns,” Peter said, looking toward the gun cabinet. Out of sheer nervousness, Frances scooped up a handful of peanuts.
“Yeah,” Charlie mumbled. “Used to hunt a lot with Chuck.”
“He’s going to take me someday,” Tray said, bounding into his grandfather’s lap. “I’m going to shoot the same gun as my Daddy did. Go after the big buck, Nasty Jake.”
“Nasty Jake?”
“That’s the big one,” Charlie said, hugging the boy with his free arm. Tray’s proximity seemed to comfort him. “We never did get that one, Chuck and I.”
“I’m going to get it,” Tray squealed.
“You bet your sweet patooty.”
Frances began to relax.
“Ever do much hunting?” Charlie asked.
“I’m afraid not. I don’t like killing things.”
“We only shoot what we eat,” Charlie said, not looking at Peter directly. Frances remembered how Chuck used to echo his words, which had never made sense to her.
“I just go to the supermarket,” Peter said lightly.
“They kill those animals, too,” Charlie said. “People forget that. Man feasts on other creatures to survive. It’s the law of nature.”
“It’s a sport,” Peter said, “It’s the killing of things as sport that I object to.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” Frances interrupted. She wished they would get off that subject.
“I understand you’re in computers, Peter,” Molly said, her voice obviously strained.
Peter nodded.
“He’s an engineer. They’re into big stuff for defense. High tech,” Frances said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie tense and suddenly remembered how he had railed against the “high-tech boys ruining it for the people who built this country.”
“I hear you’re at Bethlehem, Charlie,” Peter said.
“More than thirty years,” Molly said.
“Things are still pretty tough over there, I guess,” Peter said. There seemed to be no subject between them that was neutral.
She saw Charlie’s face grow ashen.
“We just sat back while we gave away the country to the Japs. Hell, I killed Japs in the war. When I think of the guys who died in that one, I get a little sick to my stomach to see how we snatched this defeat from the jaws of victory. Used to be Sparrows Point was pounding out steel on three shifts. Now there’s barely enough work for one.” His voice rose and his lips seemed to go bloodless. He was becoming agitated.
“All those guys out on the street. You can’t imagine the pain that’s been caused to families out there. You know what it means to get laid off? Lots of guys in their forties and fifties. Too old for retraining. Makes my blood boil the way they’ve screwed things up.” He drifted into a deep gloom.
“I know what you mean,” Peter said gamely.
“Do you really?” Charlie shook his head. “You’re all set. World’s set up for guys like you now. High-tech boys got it made.”
“Let’s face it, Charlie, high tech is the cutting edge of the future.” He looked at Frances. “We’ve got a lot of things ahead of us, Frances and I. We’ve made plans. For Tray, too.” At the sound of his name, Tray looked up.
“Why don’t you go outside and play?” Frances asked pleasantly. She sensed a looming confrontation. Tray bounced off his grandfather’s lap.
“You coming, Grampa?”
“In a little while, Tray.”
Frances watched Charlie’s face. Had a shadow crossed it suddenly? He looked confused and turned toward Molly. Tray ran up the stairs.
“We’re getting married in a few weeks,” Peter said with a smile after the boy had gone. They hadn’t discussed strategy. Perhaps she had hoped that the news would simply materialize. Well, it had.
“Married?”
“In less than three weeks,” Peter said. “At my folks’ house in Syracuse.”
“Of course, you’re both invited,” Frances said, watching Charlie’s stunned face.
“That’s—that’s wonderful,” Molly said, her voice tremulous. She made no move to kiss the intended bride. Frances suddenly had a sinking feeling in her stomach.
“That’s only—” Charlie began, passing his fingers through his hair. His eyes grew shiny with moisture. “A few months,” he said haltingly. “Four months since . . .”
“It has nothing to do with Chuck, Charlie,” Frances said gently.
