Twilight Child

by Warren Adler

  It was in the emotional area that she had felt the largest discrepancy. With Chuck she had never felt needed and, except for a brief period after they got married, certainly not desired. He had never been consciously cruel, and it had actually been a shock for him to learn that she bitterly resented his absences. Even in the early days of their marriage, she had assumed that men like Chuck were supposed to go on extended male-only hunting and fishing trips, drink beer with the boys, and generally pursue a whole range of womanless, and therefore wifeless, activities. Hadn’t his father done that, and hadn’t Molly accepted such activities as a fact of life with that type of man?

  Well, Frances hadn’t. She had merely endured. If she faulted herself, it was not for the blind acceptance of such loneliness, but for her lack of courage in not communicating her feelings to Chuck. Not that it would have changed anything. But at least it would have been more honest than pining quietly and letting bitterness grow like mold on their marriage. With Peter, she had promised herself to always say what she felt and meant and let the chips fall where they may.

  When he came back to the den, she had already mixed the martinis and popped in the olives. Actually the amount of alcohol was of less importance than the ritual, and the most they ever drank was one.

  “Interesting meeting,” Peter said, lifting his feet to the hassock that Tray had just vacated. “For once Evans was not the best salesman in the room. Sanders aced him out in ten minutes. . . .”

  His small talk washed over her without comprehension, although she tried to remember the words. Another prenuptial resolution of hers was not to be indifferent to his business life, to listen and react. Where else could he deflect the tension, lay off his fears and apprehensions, share the little victories, and work off the pain of the defeats? She expected him to do the same for her.

  But this evening she was not being true to her resolve, and apparently it showed.

  “You’re not listening?” he asked gently, squinting with exaggerated scrutiny.

  The first sip of her martini had brought on a slight nausea, reminding her that ingesting alcohol held some risk for the fetus. She put the glass down on the end table beside the couch where she hung back with more room between them than usual.

  “I’m afraid not, darling.”

  What the debate had come down to was what to give him first, the good news or the bad. Shrugging, she decided to convey the thought. Earlier, the coming baby had been definitely good news to her.

  “I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” she said. Her stomach tightened, and she forgot her nausea.

  “Is the baby okay?”

  “He’s fine,” she said, adding quickly, “nothing like that.”

  The frown of concern on his forehead quickly disappeared. He sipped his martini and continued to hold the glass, his fingers steady, a mischievous smile on his lips.

  “Well then, what’s the catastrophe?”

  She knew he wasn’t being patronizing. Home and hearth, his principal priorities beyond his work, seemed to be in good shape.

  “We’re going to have a snowflake,” she blurted.

  “A snowflake?”

  He seemed genuinely confused.

  “Well, that’s the part they give the girls in Tray’s play.”

  She watched comprehension dawn. He drew his glass to his lips and upended it.

  “You’re kidding.”

  She wondered if he was offering her the real face of panic or simply joking. If he took this as the bad news, she wondered how he would characterize the other news.

  “I never kid about conception,” she said lightly.

  He slapped his forehead.

  “All I have to do is hang my pants on the bedpost.”

  “A bit more than that, darling.”

  His face lit up with a broad smile.

  “You’re sure?”

  “The doctor will be happy to make book on it.”

  He reached for her and moved closer on the couch, embracing her, kissing her deeply on the mouth, caressing her hair. She returned his affection in kind.

  “And he’s sure it’s a—a snowflake?”

  “One or the other.” She paused. “The snowflake is my idea.”

  “I’ll take whatever comes.”

  He got up and poured the remainder of the martini from the mixer, noting that she had barely touched hers. Seeing this, she picked up the glass and touched his, but didn’t drink. She was relieved, but too concerned about her other news to be ecstatic.

  “To Snowflake,” he said, tipping his glass, pausing in midair, before raising it to his lips. “Sixteen months apart. It’ll be like twins.”

  “Twins are easier. Only once to the well.”

  “I’ll be right there. Like with Mark.” He pecked her on the cheek. “If it were biologically possible, I’d have it for you.”

  “If it were biologically possible, I’d let you.”

  He was in such a good mood, she did not wish to spoil it, and let him have his dinner first. She had lit candles, and the flicker had the romantic effect she had planned. But romance was the farthest thing from her mind. Tray came down, sat with them awhile with his nightly cookie and milk, then, after the usual protestations, kissed them both and went off to bed.

  She brought the letter in with the coffee, blew out the candles, and put on the light.

  “And now the bad news,” she said, placing the letter beside him as she poured.

  She watched as he slipped the letter from the envelope. He read the words slowly, and she knew that he was deliberately withholding his reaction, mulling over in his scientific mind the best option, the one that would be easiest on her.

  “Rough stuff,” she said impatiently when his reaction was longer in coming than she expected. He shrugged and lifted his eyes. Unlike her, anger made him more controlled and deliberate.

  “It’s only a typical lawyer’s letter,” he said. “No cause for panic.”

  “I don’t like the timing,” she pouted.

  “It’s an act of desperation. Very transparent. I’m not a lawyer, but I’d say they haven’t got a leg to stand on.” He shook his head. “Damned shame.”

  “You really think they’d take us into court?”

  “Anybody could do that. The question is, on what grounds.”

  “So they could be bluffing?”

  “They have nothing to lose. You’d think that if they had Tray’s real interest at heart, they would leave it alone. It’s been two years. By now one would think they would have adjusted to the situation.”

  “I can understand their being upset. But this—I think it’s very selfish of them,” she said, watching him tentatively. “They’re just trying to aggravate us. It’s an intrusion, that’s what it is.”

  He looked thoughtfully into his coffee cup. After a while he lifted it to his lips, watching her over the cup’s rim.

  “It’s sad, Frances. But it doesn’t make it right.”

  “In time, I’m sure we would have come to some agreement.”

  “But on our terms, not theirs. They’re trying to force something that we’re not ready for.”

  “It’s so unlike them. I can’t remember their ever dealing with lawyers.”

  “I especially don’t like ultimatums,” Peter said. “They’re offensive.”

  “Two weeks,” she said.

  “We could do without the pressure,” Peter said with typical understatement. “Especially now.” He reached out and took her hand. “We could always capitulate.” His eyes studied her, and she was the first to turn away.

  “No,” she said, although the negative shake of her head came before the words. “I don’t think we’re ready for that. I don’t want any disruptions, Peter. Not now. Not for Tray either. He’s survived marvelously well for two years without them. He’s happy as a clam. And your folks have been wonderful.”

  “I don’t want to come out as Attila the Hun on this,” Peter said, caressing her cheek with the back of his o
ther hand.

  “See what they’re doing. Now you’re guilty.”

  “It’s not very pleasant knowing that you’re the cause of other people’s unhappiness and desperation.” He paused and looked at his hands. “It’s a matter of priorities. We’ll just have to keep biting the bullet. If they sue, they sue.”

  “As you can see, they’ve laid on the hearts and flowers in thick gobs.” She paused and tapped her forefinger on the edge of her cup. “As if I were some sort of unfeeling monster with neither compassion nor pity. Most of all, I resent that. Imagine going to a lawyer.”

  “The bottom line is Tray,” he said. “As far as I can see, he’s doing exceptionally well.”

  “He certainly is,” she said with rising indignation. “I’m his mother and I know what’s best for my child,” she said, conscious of a slight mistiness clouding her vision.

  “Our child,” he corrected. She took the hand that was caressing her cheek and kissed it.

  “Why can’t they just let us get on with our lives? Tray is happy, happier than he has ever been. He loves you, Peter.”

  “I know that.” He cleared his throat. “And I love him.”

  “That day when Charlie accosted him in school, I saw the child. He was confused, harassed. I have no idea what Charlie told the boy, I got there too late. Maybe just in the nick of time. It was humiliating for Charlie. And it troubled Tray. Why can’t they just leave him alone?” Her voice had risen, and she felt a tightness in her chest, but it did not stop the flow of words. “I don’t hate them. I know they care about Tray. They just don’t understand. They’re only thinking of themselves, as if being with Tray would be some kind of therapy. Well, I don’t owe them that. I didn’t marry them. I married their son.” She felt a sense of rising hysteria. “And it was awful. Just awful—”

  “You mustn’t upset yourself,” Peter said, leaning across the table to kiss her cheek. “Not now.”

  “Why can’t they understand?”

  “Because they’re not thinking of anybody but themselves.”

  “They have no right to interfere in our lives. Chuck detested the idea of fatherhood, as if it were one more intrusion on his freedom. In the last couple of years, he barely even saw the child.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, Frances,” Peter said gently.

  “I’m sure they made it sound to the lawyer that somehow I was acting out of spite, taking it out on them for a bad marriage to their son. I was a good and faithful wife.” She shrugged. “Maybe not so good in their terms. But certainly faithful. I tried, Peter.”

  “You’re going off on a tangent, darling,” Peter said gently. “The issue hasn’t changed. Now who’s whipping herself with guilt? The issue is Tray. Not your marriage to Chuck. Not his parent’s feelings. The issue is Tray. That’s it. That’s the bottom line.”

  “And you, Peter,” she said. “They have no right to rain on your parade. I wish they would just go away.”

  He picked up the envelope, slipped the letter out, read it again, and replaced it. Then he flipped it casually so that it slid to the other end of the table. His attitude calmed her, and she grew more confident.

  “Believe me,” she said, “I understand what they must be feeling. They never did have a good grasp on what was real. Especially my father-in-law, who couldn’t believe it was possible that his wonderful son could make anybody unhappy. Molly’s okay, but, like me, she was an outsider in that father-son club. Well, I certainly don’t want a repetition of that. Not for my son.” She looked up and rapped the table with her knuckles. “No. I know what’s best for my child.”

  “Our child,” he whispered.

  “Our child.”

  Her resolve quieted her, as she touched something tough and strong within herself, a determination to be assertive, as she had been when she had decided to leave Uncle Walter’s protection. Maybe at the beginning what she had done regarding Charlie and Molly had seemed an aberration. Now it seemed natural, even necessary. Peter and she had every right to make decisions for their child. How dare they threaten to put that decision in the hands of a judge, a total stranger? The old life was gone, and good riddance.

  “We’re going to call their bluff, Peter,” she said.

  “No question about that.”

  “And if they take us to court, we’re going to fight them.”

  “I agree,” he said, reaching out again for her hand, which he gripped tightly. “But you must take it in stride. You mustn’t allow yourself to get upset. That’s the one thing we have to guard against. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  She understood his words, but her racing mind disregarded them.

  “And any expenses are to come out of Chuck’s insurance money,” she said emphatically. Her original idea had been to use that money to acquire a college education for herself. But when Peter came along, she had put it in the bank for Tray’s education.

  “That’s not—” he began.

  “Yes,” she said firmly. “It’s what I want.”

  He said nothing, obviously turning it over in his mind. Inside herself, she felt a sudden drain of energy, like air seeping from a tire. No matter what, she knew, no amount of strength or bravado could truly stop the impending pain. As if in response, a tiny spasm knotted the lower part of her abdomen. She said nothing, and it soon passed.

  5

  THROUGH the kitchen window, Molly could see Charlie puttering in the yard. She stood at the sink, rinsing the breakfast dishes before putting them into the dishwasher. It was an overcast morning, chilly for early October, and Charlie was puffing vapor as he bent and rose in the process of flinging dead branches into the wheelbarrow. Early fall was clean-up time. Charlie would fuss with the remains of his vegetable garden, preparing the beds for next year’s crop of the inevitable tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, and lettuce that would make up the bulk of their summer salads. He would also prune back the recently harvested apple and pear trees. Putting the fruits up in jars had become an annual ritual.

  Goaded by Charlie’s use of the latest fertilizers and insecticides, the garden and trees yielded more each year. In years past, some of it had always been earmarked for Chuck and Frances. Tray had especially loved the way Molly did the pears. Frances’s polite note after she had married and taken Tray abruptly halted all that. Now that Charlie had officially retired, there wouldn’t be jars going to his coworkers. And there were limits to how many she could give away to the neighbors and the other teachers and students at the school. By now everybody was so well stocked that even a polite acceptance seemed forced and hollow.

  It wasn’t only that, of course. The whole idea of people and social contacts had taken on a new dimension. In their age group, people talked about their children and grandchildren, of incidents, births, marriages, holidays together. Even worse, they showed pictures. It was simply impossible to hide one’s feelings, to assuage the pain. Molly had all she could do to keep Charlie from seeing her own agony, for it only exacerbated his. It was better, and safer, to keep to themselves these days.

  They had lived in their house in Dundalk for more than thirty years. The plot of land backed onto a stand of trees on the edge of a flood plain that had mercifully escaped the ravages of the overflowing creeks and marshland that bordered the industrial edge of the Chesapeake Bay shore. Built of brick, the house, which had gone through a series of periodic remodelings, was a cut above those in the neighborhood, a big fish in a small pond.

  They had often joked about the eclectic architecture of the area, where the facades ranged from clapboard to aluminum to false stone. But they had always taken a feisty pride in the individual nature of Dundalk’s inhabitants and enjoyed the good-natured jokes about its lack of, to say the least, cachet. Many of the people who had been there when they first moved into the neighborhood had gone, and younger people were coming in with a lot more in common with each other than with an over-the-hill couple like themselves.

  When the subject of selling the place came
up, they had always concluded that they just weren’t “movers.” As proof, they could point to generations of their forebears who had rooted in the comparatively small Maryland towns of Frederick and Crisfield, and they reasoned that they had already expended the energy of their blood by taking the radical step of moving to the metropolis of Baltimore.

  Something in the way Charlie worked arrested Molly’s attention. She couldn’t quite articulate it in her mind, like a missing word in a familiar lyric that required humming the tune again to catch the omission. She stood transfixed, studying this man with whom she had shared—how did the lawyers say it?—bed and board for thirty-seven years. He wore his familiar yard uniform, a tattered orange-background mackinaw, Budweiser peak cap, old wide winter khakis, and work boots that had replaced the original marine issue combat boots he had managed, by care and persistence, to keep usable for nearly twenty years after the war.

  Then it occurred to her that she wasn’t just casting a watchful eye over him as she had done for years from that very same spot. She was seeing the memories of the past. There was Chuck, dancing around him, first as pup, then as helper, then as equal. Gripping the sink, she looked away and saw her knuckles go white as she strained to make that old image go away. It was still too raw for conscious recapture. It was more than enough to bear to see them, like old movies, in her dreams. Often the running reel was interrupted by tremors of sobbing hysteria, and she would wake up and need the succor of Charlie’s reassuring presence and caress. At times, the tables would turn and it was she that would have to provide passage through a nightmare.

  Finally she chased away the old memories and began to inspect Charlie, analyzing, studying, trying to determine just what it was that was awry. In the nearly two weeks since they had seen the lawyer, she had seen his mood change. As the deadline for Frances’s response grew closer, he had gone from determined optimism to sullen discouragement. She wondered if it had been a good idea to consult the lawyer. Not that she was having second thoughts. But both of them expected a more concrete reaction. The uncertainty took its toll. Silences between them lengthened. At breakfast that morning, Charlie had done little more than issue perfunctory grumbles while he pretended to read the Sunday Sun.