by Warren Adler
As she continued to watch him, her eyes misted and she felt the food she had just eaten congeal in her stomach. He seemed to be slowing down, showing his age. Always when she looked at him in a reflective way, she could see the outlines of the younger man, her sweet golden prince, as she had first seen him in his dress blues. Now the lines were blurring, and the ravages of time and disappointment were showing signs of their inevitable victory. He seemed to be hesitating after each movement, deliberately stringing out the activity, squandering time as if it hardly mattered anymore.
It was strange to observe, since he had always rushed through time, treating it like a precious commodity to be allocated carefully for his many hobbies. He loved to putter and fix things around the house and yard. In the branches of the unleafing oak, she could see the tree house he had built for Chuck, half-rehabilitated when Tray had been around, now rotting with the seasons. Even the tire replaced as a swing for Tray looked shriveled and lifeless as it dangled in the light breeze. During that brief time of their having him, Tray had, like Chuck, become Charlie’s pup, and Charlie had responded with a flurry of energy, putting the old pull wagon and sandbox in shape in a single weekend. For him, the activity went a long way to assuage the grief of Chuck’s death.
He had even been planning to buy another sailboat. She tried to laugh out loud at the memory of the first one, but only a brief squawk came, more like a sob. Originally dubbed Molly’s Thing, it had soon become apparent that the name was all wrong, and she had insisted it be changed to Two Charlies. She had gone along most of the time at the beginning but finally succumbed to the brutal fact that while Dramamine prevented the nausea of sea-sickness, it also made her too drowsy to be any fun. By the time Chuck was ten, he and his father were off alone on weekend cruises.
He had stenciled the words “Three Charlies” on Tray’s reconditioned wagon, a true harbinger of the sailboat to come. For some reason she found herself mesmerized by the bitter-sweetness of the memories, and she did not turn away from Charlie performing his now joyless chores among the dead and dying symbols strewn about. There was the hoop of the basket attached to the garage wall, now rusted, the basket shredded, where Charlie had taught Chuck to “dump the b-ball”; the weathered warren cubbies where Charlie and Chuck had raised rabbits until the population had become impossible to control; the grass rise that they had flattened to make a well-drained place for Chuck’s tent for summer sleep-outs with his friends.
Suddenly, sensing her inspection, Charlie stopped, turned quickly, and shot her a puzzled look. He was not smiling, nor did he wave, as if, having read her mind, he disapproved of her watching him. Out of respect, she turned away and moved back, out of sight.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and went into the den, where she planned to mark a briefcase full of papers. How many nights and weekends had she spent on papers? She wondered if she had used time wisely when Chuck was growing up, a thought that had begun to gnaw at her since Frances and Tray had gone, as if she had missed doing something that might have prevented what had happened. Perhaps Chuck might still be alive? She shrugged away the question with a silent rebuke.
Sitting opposite the gun cabinet that hung on the paneled wall, she found that somehow its just being there was deflecting her concentration, nagging her to confront it. She had hardly noticed it for years, although it was a routine feature of her life to see Charlie polishing the stocks and cleaning the barrels regularly, even though they hadn’t been used since one of the last times Chuck had come home to visit.
Hunting, boating, fishing, going to ball games. They were the expected rituals of manliness. She had never questioned them. Indeed, such things were traditional among the men in her family before she married. They were to be accepted, the loneliness never resented.
“Builds self-reliance,” Charlie had assured her repeatedly, perhaps reacting to his own uneasiness about leaving her alone on those occasions. Actually, in keeping with her own early memories, she had welcomed the display of companionship, the bonding of the male generations. It fulfilled the expectations of her conditioning. In that environment girls giggled and sewed and cooked, and those, like her, who wore glasses were excused their bookishness. Her mother had lived her life ordering the men around, and they usually obeyed. But she would never, never interfere or, even inadvertently, spoil their special pleasure in manly pursuits.
Of course, the guns always frightened her to death, and no amount of reassurance on Charlie’s part ever chased away her fear when he and Chuck went off during the season. They would bring back venison and rabbit already skinned and butchered for cooking, which Charlie duly piled in the freezer with solemn mystical allusions to the meaning of the hunt.
“One must kill only to eat,” he would intone, which was enormously hypocritical, since they could buy all the meat they needed at the supermarket. She shivered, remembering how that had set off that crucial argument with Peter. Then she pushed it out of her thoughts.
Once she had come into the den to see him showing Tray how the guns worked. He had stood behind the boy, holding the gun and showing him how to sight. Tray squinted behind the stock and pulled the trigger.
“Got ’em,” Charlie had squealed, smiling at her. It was, she realized now, the very first time he had smiled since Chuck had been reported dead. The memory confused her, superimposed on a more ominous image of a dejected Charlie on the day after his sixtieth birthday, before he had told her what actually happened on that day. He was sitting in the den with Chuck’s old hunting gun across his knees. He hadn’t heard her come in, although she had made no effort to muffle her entrance. It was the way he held the gun that frightened her, one hand on the stock, the other around the trigger guard, one finger unmistakably through the loop. She had seen no cleaning things in sight, and she had scanned the room, looking for a shell box.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” she had asked, bending to get a better look at his eyes, which seemed fixed on an internal apparition. She had to shake his shoulder for him to raise his head.
“Just getting ready to clean this,” he had responded, shaking his head as if that might dissipate what was obviously a most unhappy daydream.
“Didn’t you just clean that gun a couple of weeks ago?” She hadn’t been sure, and she did not want him to ignore her concern.
“Never can clean these damned things enough,” he had responded.
Looking at the gun case now brought back not only the memory but her uneasiness. She would tell herself later that it was merely caused by her active imagination.
Nevertheless, it made her put up defenses against succumbing to her own depression. She owed it to Charlie to keep her own spirits up. Therefore, she promised herself, she would assume the role of cheerleader. There was not much choice in the decision, since he was obviously not presently fit for that role. Also, she had her work. In an odd way, one might say, she had her children, had always had her children. To her, they were eternally fifth graders, still perched on the better edge of innocence and, therefore, still available for love, complete with hugs and kisses.
Not that her grief did not gnaw at her. But for her it wasn’t just grief, it was the old wounds of infertility that could bring her down, the terrible inadequacy that had come from her difficulty in conceiving Chuck, a fact that had lent an awful tension to at least ten years of their marriage. In that period, Charlie was the cheerleader, as sweet and understanding a liar and hypocrite as ever there was. She had, she knew, ruined his expectations for a larger family. Her own as well. She alone was the defective—the humiliating tests of his potency always revealed a sperm count that could father a nation.
To see him unhappy now, this wonderful, good, and loving man, had made her angry and impatient with Frances and Peter for taking this cruel tack at exactly that point when he—and she, too—needed the comfort of Tray most. Thankfully, she was able to put it all aside for at least part of the day. Not like Charlie, in whom it simmered at every moment of every hou
r.
She hadn’t told him all of that last serious conversation with Frances, only of her assurance that the condition was temporary. She had, of course, mentioned the adoption, but in the context of the entire traumatic event, that had seemed merely a secondary priority. How could they know that it would come back to haunt them?
“Peter is taking Tray on—as a father,” Frances had said. “He’s adopting him.” To her credit, it was not something casually mentioned on the telephone. Frances had come over to the house in the late afternoon while Charlie was at work. She had been in the yard playing ball with Tray when Molly came home from school. A week had gone by since the scene between Peter and Charlie. It had not been a happy week. Charlie had been moody and depressed, still not able to accept the reality of the impending marriage. For her part, Molly had her own worries about the new term and a new, very young principal.
The weather was still warm enough for cold lemonade, which she had made and brought to the patio. Sensory memories always made the recollection seem more real. Even now she could savor the tangy taste, which, as the conversation proceeded, grew bitter and metallic.
“I owe Tray this chance.”
Frances’s lips trembled, and her voice was shaky.
“Are you all right, dear?” Molly had said.
“No, I’m not.” She had paused. “This hurts.”
“What does?” Molly had been genuinely confused. It did concern her that Charlie had not exactly given his blessing to the marriage so soon after Chuck’s death, but then again, he hadn’t been happy about Chuck’s marrying Frances in the first place. He’d get over this as he had gotten over the other, Molly thought. Or had he?
“You and Charlie won’t be coming to the wedding,” Frances had said bluntly.
Molly had thought that over for a moment. They had received invitations. But the statement and the flat way in which it was delivered startled her. Had it been a question or a command?
“There is always the possibility that Charlie might change his mind. You know how he is. Of course, out of respect for his views I wouldn’t go without him. He’s just still depressed over Chuck.”
“It wouldn’t matter in any event, Molly. Peter and I both think it’s best.” She had paused and lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I suppose it is understandable,” Molly had said without conviction. “What with Peter’s family and all. Considering the circumstances, it’s probably more appropriate to leave us out.” She’d tell that to Charlie, leaving him with one less problem to grapple with.
“And after we’re married, we’ll need lots of space, Molly.” Frances seemed to have gained courage, and the lip tremors had stopped. Briefly, Molly had been taken aback, as if she were speaking to a person other than the one she had known for the past six years. The other Frances had kept more to herself, an internal type, rarely confiding and certainly not as assertive as she now appeared. Peter’s influence had already wrought changes in her.
“I’ve never been that kind of a mother-in-law. You know that, Frances.”
“What I mean is”—Frances stammered—“is that we really want you and Charlie not to visit.”
“You know Charlie and his pride. He’d never go where he wasn’t invited.”
Molly had noted that Frances had averted her eyes. Her shyness had always made eye contact difficult. Now she was deliberately avoiding any attempt at it. Although the sun shone brightly and Tray played contentedly with the ball, the atmosphere had suddenly become ominous.
“Then you do understand what I’m saying?” She grimaced as if she were in pain.
“I understand what you’re saying. I’m not sure what you mean,” Molly had said haltingly. “You know that Charlie and I will do nothing that will interfere with your happiness.” She paused, trying to gather her wits, not daring to contemplate what was coming next. “I hope you won’t be too hard on Charlie. He really wasn’t very nice to you and Peter the other day. I hope you’re not holding it against him. He just can’t hold things in. Doesn’t seem to do much good to tell him, either. But he’s a good man.” She said the last emphatically, almost as if it were a sales pitch. She wanted to keep talking, but she couldn’t think of much else to say.
“This is very hard for me,” Frances said. “And I don’t want to cry.”
“Of course not, dear.” She was having difficulty holding back tears herself.
“I owe this to Peter. He’s been simply wonderful about Tray. And me. I know it’s the right thing for us.”
“I want only what’s best for you and Tray,” Molly managed to say. “We’ll be happy to stay away for a while. Of course, you need time to adjust to each other without us hanging around and bothering things.”
“I was afraid of that. I don’t think you completely understand, Molly,” Frances said, her voice barely a whisper. “What I mean is—” She paused, began again, swallowed the words, cleared her throat, and said, “I mean for you both to stay away completely.”
“I told you we’ll do it, Frances,” Molly said with rising irritation. “Depend on it.”
“Until we say otherwise, Molly. Now do you understand?”
It was like a club to the head. Was she getting the point?
“I’m a bit confused.” Molly had responded with the same tone that she often used with her students.
“From Tray as well,” Frances said, almost swallowing the words.
Molly felt suddenly groggy, slightly dizzy. She was having difficulty understanding.
“You mean never see our grandson? You mean that?”
“Not never, Molly. Just for now.”
“No visits?”
“Not for now.”
“No telephone calls? No letters?”
“Just until Tray adjusts. For the time being.”
“You’re saying that we’re to have no contact with our grandson.” She felt foolish in the repetition.
“It makes sense for Tray.”
There had been a long pause as Molly coped with a sudden shortness of breath.
“I know you’ll think we’re heartless and cruel. I would like you to understand. But if you don’t, I’ll have to accept that.” She began to race along now. “I want this to be a completely fresh start for Peter and me. Tray, too. For the three of us. We’ll see how it goes.” For a moment Molly felt the uncommon inspection of Frances’s eyes. “I’m not saying it’s forever,” she added quickly.
“Is this your idea?” She had felt helpless by then, ready to grasp any lifeline.
“Mine and Peter’s.”
“But why? We love Tray. How can it possibly hurt to see him?”
“It’s not that, Molly. The boy’s been through enough. Let him accept his new life. Think of his well-being first.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I know you think I’m being cruel and heartless.”
“Misguided, maybe. But no, not cruel and heartless.” I will not give her that satisfaction, Molly thought bitterly. I will not make it easy for her.
“I feel awful about it, Molly. But I think it’s the right thing. He’ll have Peter’s folks. We just think it would be too complicated. We don’t need any outside pressures just now. Let’s all adjust to the situation first.”
“We’re his grandparents. Not the enemy.”
“That’s not the issue, Molly. It’s just—just that we want to make a fresh start.” She was repeating herself now, as if she had memorized a speech. “There’s Peter to think about. He had a very bad first marriage, and he worries about anything that might hurt ours. Besides, why should he have to cope with resentments that have nothing to do with him—with another man’s parents to remind him that he wasn’t the first?”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words, but I imagine he could be thinking it.”
“He’ll have Tray to remind him of that.”
“But he’ll be Tray’s father. Legally and otherwise.”
“Not otherwise. Just legally,” Moll
y had snapped, instantly regretting her sudden outburst.
“There. You see? I don’t fault you for it. It’s an attitude. None of us should have to contend with that for now.”
“I don’t know what to say.” She felt drained.
“Maybe someday we’ll think differently, but for now, I pray that you won’t be too unhappy.”
A numbness had begun to set in and, in her mind, she managed a subtle shift of focus to Charlie.
“It’s going to be rough on Charlie. You know how much he adores Tray.”
“I know.”
Molly had half expected her to bring up a point about Tray’s being a kind of surrogate son for Charlie, but wisely Frances left that alone. There is something more here than meets the eye, Molly had decided, something unspoken. She wondered if, keeping her wits about her, she could bring it to the surface. Anything, she thought. Anything but this.
“Don’t you think that this step is, well, to say the least, a little drastic?”
“Yes, it is. But it can’t avoided.”
“You think we’ll be a bad influence on Tray?”
“Certainly not bad. But confusing. Let’s just try it, Molly. Nothing is forever.”
“Not childhood either. Nor our lives.” She had been trying desperately to keep her composure, but soon her eyes were misting and she could not disguise a sterling effort to hold back a tearful collapse.
“This is not easy for me either, Molly,” Frances had said, her voice catching.
“You don’t know the half of it.” She managed to hold back her tears while her mind tried to conceive of strategies that might get Frances to change her mind. “It somehow doesn’t seem right. Charlie and I are blood kin to Tray, unselfishly devoted and loving.”
“Please, Molly. I don’t question that.”
It was impossible to think and grieve at the same time. All mental and emotional strength seemed to have run out of her. There was only room for a desperate probe.
