by Warren Adler
“So then where’s the harm?”
“There is harm in it, Molly.”
“I promise I will not bother you again. I promise.” Her tone was urgent, pressured.
“Does that mean you will drop the suit?” She felt oddly encouraged. Perhaps such an idea was germinating in Molly’s mind. “You realize, of course, that it is a terrible disruption for Peter and myself.”
“For us, too.” There was a long pause. “Maybe,” Molly said hesitantly.
“You mean maybe you will drop the suit?”
“There are endless possibilities if human beings will just sit down and talk.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Frances had countered.
They had gone round and round in that vein, but since the possibility of ending the suit had been broached, she had finally agreed. Very quickly it had seemed more like capitulation on her part.
For their meeting, they had picked a Burger King on Route 40, about a half hour from Columbia. It was Molly’s suggestion that they get there by ten-thirty, just after breakfast and before the lunch-hour crowds would arrive. There was, she knew, a great deal of unspoken subtlety involved even in that decision. Somehow it seemed like neutral ground, a spot where they could appear anonymous, a midway point between their present worlds.
This sense of intrigue annoyed Frances, as well. She had never lied to Peter. Not that she had lied about meeting with Molly, but to her mind, the failure to mention it was as good as a lie. She knew it was an exaggeration, but she could not shake the suggestion of betrayal. Childishly, she wondered what form her punishment would take, whether it would strike her or her children. It was awful to contemplate and, before she reached the door to leave, she was overwhelmed by the desire to call the whole thing off.
Rushing to the phone in the den, she misdialed Molly’s number, discovering that it had disappeared from her memory. Information provided it, but she got no answer. Then she tried Molly’s school. One of the clerks in the principal’s office told her that Molly had complained of feeling ill and had taken off for the day. She knew, of course, what that meant. Still, she did not leave the house. With growing anxiety, she paced the living room. Molly was, she was certain, on her way to their meeting place. She looked at the tall clock in the hall. If she left now, she would already be fifteen minutes late. Perhaps she should wait until ten-thirty, call Burger King, and tell Molly she had had second thoughts.
She wondered if she should call Peter, confess her foolishness, and ask his advice. Actually, she knew in advance what his advice would be: Don’t go. She pictured Molly sitting there in the restaurant, stomach churning with apprehension and anxiety, watching the entering patrons, searching their faces, waiting for the moment that would not come. Suddenly she felt a strange tightness in what she was sure was her uterus where her new baby was growing. It passed quickly, but it left her with worrisome thoughts. Would all this angst have any effect on her daughter?
With a great effort of will, Frances put aside her increasing anxiety.
“There’s no harm in it,” Molly had promised.
“There had better not be,” she told herself.
She was nearly forty minutes late. Road construction and traffic had held her up even more than her initial hesitation.
“I’m sorry,” she told Molly, who looked up, ashen-faced, from what was obviously tepid coffee.
The lunchtime crowds were arriving in droves. The lines were long and the atmosphere noisy. She slid in across the booth from Molly.
“I hope they don’t throw us out for loitering,” Molly said. She looked toward the busy counters. “Do you want something?”
“I’m fine,” Frances said. Molly looked tired, much older than she had appeared when Frances had last seen her.
“I’m afraid he doesn’t have much of a light touch,” Molly shrugged.
“Who?”
“Father Time.” Molly’s eyes inspected her. “But you’re looking wonderful, Frances. Radiant.”
“I’m happy.” She had resolved not to tell her about the new baby.
“And Tray?”
“He’s doing fine. The baby, too.”
“Peter?”
“Everybody is wonderful, Molly. Really wonderful. I have a good life now.” She wished she hadn’t said “now.”
“So it’s all behind you? Us? Chuck?”
The irony of the face-to-face confrontation, Frances thought, was that it put Molly at a distinct disadvantage. The knowledge calmed her.
“I’m afraid so.” She hesitated. “Except for that lawsuit. It’s something we all could have done without.”
“I’m really sorry about that. But there didn’t seem to be another way. Sometimes you get into a situation that cannot be resolved except by an outside source.”
“If only you would both realize—” Frances began.
“Still the hard-nose, eh, Frances?” Molly said, shaking her head. Her attitude had a sharper, more confrontational edge than Frances had seen in her before.
“What I’m trying to say is that pressing the issue only makes it worse. I’ve told you that you’ve got to give us all time.”
Frances watched Molly’s eyes narrow. Her nostrils quivered. “Your concept of time and ours is vastly different. For God’s sake, Frances, it’s been two years. Are you saying that if we let things alone, give up the suit, you’ll give us some future date when you’ll let us see Tray? Is that what you mean?”
“I suppose I do,” Frances said.
“But it’s now that it counts the most.”
“For whom?”
“For Tray, of course.”
“I think that’s where we differ, Molly,” she said gently. “It’s now that Tray needs the stability of what he presently has. Perhaps later, when he gets into his teens, the situation won’t be as disruptive.”
“Like what? Like thirteen? Fourteen? Seventeen?”
“I’m not sure.”
“At eighteen he can choose for himself whether to see us or not. By then he’ll have forgotten what we look like or who we are.” She was obviously holding back her anger, although her voice was still soft. Around them the noise level was rising as more customers poured into the place.
“That’s eleven years from now. We’ll have missed the best part of his life.”
“That’s just the point, Molly. It’s him I have to think about first,” she sighed. “I guess I can’t make you see it.”
“There’s nothing to see,” Molly said bitterly.
“That’s because you won’t look. Peter is Tray’s father now. That is an inescapable fact of Tray’s life. He is a real, living, caring father. Not a substitute. A true father. And Tray loves him. The boy is happy. He has a brother.” Frances hesitated, then continued. “You and Charlie are part of another life. How many times must I say it? It’s not said out of cruelty or spite or anger. The boy doesn’t need you. I know it sounds awful. But it’s true. I mean, I’ve kept the boy’s name. I haven’t totally erased Chuck’s memory. But it’s my and Peter’s responsibility to decide what’s best for him.”
“What about us?”
“Don’t you understand? I can’t look at it that way.”
“Were we so mean and terrible to you?” Molly asked pointedly.
“Not really.” She had hesitated, just enough to convey the real truth of her earlier unhappiness. “It has nothing to do with that.”
“But you do see us as a kind of enemy?”
Frances looked around her uncomfortably. Guard against this, she told herself.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “You people see everything from the wrong end of the telescope.”
“Afraid that somehow we’ll corrupt our own grandchild?”
“Now you’re going too far, Molly.”
“I can’t help it. I just don’t understand. Are you really afraid that we’ll hurt Tray? Is it Peter you’re worried about? Or maybe—” Frances sensed that something truly awful was coming, so
mething totally out of character for Molly. She said nothing and waited.
“We’ve seen your house, Frances. And you. Your clothes. Even the way you talk. It’s like the rough edges have been smoothed out.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dundalk is a long way from Columbia.”
“Not as far as you think.”
“It’s like you moved up a notch or two and don’t want to be reminded—”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to that, Molly,” Frances said, her agitation rising. Molly was pressing sensitive buttons, as if she knew exactly what would get the most telling reactions. Frances started to slide out of the booth. Molly put a hand on her arm.
“It’s not that, Frances,” Molly said, her lips trembling. “Not that at all.” Her eyes glazed over as if she were focusing on something deep inside of her. “It’s killing Charlie.” Her neck muscles knotted with the effort to keep herself under control. Clearing her throat, she tried to continue, then coughed into her fist.
“I’m sorry, Molly. Really I am.”
“You can’t understand what has happened to him. Chuck, Tray, his job, everything that meant anything in his life has simply disappeared. It seems like such a little thing, a simple regular visit with the only grandchild he has”—she coughed again—“we have.”
Molly’s gaze seemed to sweep through her like a cold wind. She felt stripped of flesh, transparent.
“You must think I’m a terrible woman, Molly,” Frances said.
“No.” She shook her head a number of times. “Just misdirected.”
“I’m not directed, Molly. It’s a joint decision,” Frances said indignantly. “I have to get on with my life as best I can. Do what’s going to be right for Tray.” She paused, and her hands tightened into fists. “I didn’t exactly have things easy. Life with Chuck wasn’t a bed of roses.” She had not intended the reference and could see in Molly’s face the confusion it raised.
“Is that the real issue then?” Molly asked. “Not just Tray.” She obviously wanted to say more, but held off. No, she thought. Not just Tray.
Frances felt the beginnings of a great retch growing in her stomach. This is madness, she thought. Why am I subjecting myself to this? Time to go. “So you will not drop the suit?” she asked.
“We will if you let us visit Tray. The solution seems quite simple.”
“Not to me. Not to Peter and certainly not to Tray.”
“Frances, dammit,” Molly’s voice rose above the din. People turned around to look at her. To Frances, the flare-up seemed totally out of character, and it frightened her. Seeing that she had made a stir, Molly lowered her voice and spoke through her teeth. “I think Charlie is thinking about committing suicide.”
Am I a punching bag? Frances asked herself. Letting myself in for this? It had been a mistake. Her first instincts had been correct.
“I don’t understand,” she said after a long pause.
“I’ve never lied to you, Frances. I’ve always tried to be forthright and above board. I’m sorry. To me this is a matter of life or death. I have reason to believe that Charlie has suicide on his mind.” She averted her eyes, perhaps embarrassed by the revelation.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I? Did you ever see a man sit with a loaded gun on his lap in the middle of the afternoon?”
“But you can’t be sure—”
“I can’t take that chance.”
“Over not seeing Tray? Is that what you’re implying?”
“Over everything.”
“And you’re saying that if he doesn’t get to see Tray and he then takes his life, somehow it will be because of that.”
“I had no intention of putting it in those terms, Frances. Really I didn’t.”
“I think it’s awful to even suggest it.”
Molly averted her eyes and played with her fingers. “I have my life, too.” With an obvious effort of will, she withheld her tears. “And Charlie is my life. I’m here—I’ve begged you to come here so that I can beg you to let—well, at least Charlie—come and see Tray. Let them visit on any terms acceptable to you. I’m willing to stand aside if it will help. I’m not a martyr type, Frances. You know that. And I love Tray. I don’t know if this makes any sense. But Charlie needs this. He needs it desperately. Why can’t you reconsider? Persuade Peter to reconsider. Frances, we’ve lost our only son. Can you know what that means? I know you’re a good girl, a decent girl, a caring person. You’ve got to give Charlie this chance. . . .”
It was no longer possible for Molly to hold it in, and she let go, but not completely. She had balled a napkin in one of her hands. She now flattened its wrinkles and lifted it to wipe her tears. Frances watched her, angry, stupefied, and shocked. She was also moved, but in a strange way it only solidified her resolve to keep them from seeing Tray, to keep him from being exposed to the terror of such thoughts. “My God, Molly. Why must everything rest on this? Why don’t you find some other way to fill your lives? I mean, in a way you’re free, totally without demands and responsibilities. You can travel. You can do anything you want.”
“I still have my job,” Molly whispered, sniffling.
“It just seems that you’re both getting morbid about all this.” She had never seen Molly in such a state of helplessness. There had always been an air of self-contentment and reserve about her. Even Chuck’s characterization of his mother as the family’s defensive back seemed to be diminished by her pleading. It shocked Frances to see Molly’s eroding strength.
“It’s not very pleasant to see your husband disintegrate,” Molly said, the pointed sarcasm somehow steadying her. Frances resolved to leave as soon as she could. Molly had trapped her, she decided. She was working on her guilt. Feeling panicked within herself, she cried silently for Peter.
The restaurant was getting extremely crowded, and patrons carrying full trays as they passed looked at them with beady-eyed resentment. Yet she did not want to make the first move for fear that it would plunge Molly into even deeper despair.
“I never expected things to get as bad as this,” Frances said.
“And you have it in your power to put it all in reverse.”
The intensity of Molly’s sudden inspection burned into her. The tears had dried. The inner hysteria seemed to have dissipated, leaving Frances even more suspicious of Molly’s motives. She could not seem to move out of the glare of the older woman’s pressuring gaze. “I’ll do anything you ask, Frances. Once a month is all Charlie needs. That’s not much to ask, is it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then every two months if that’s the way you want it.”
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Molly?”
“It doesn’t have to be long, either. Maybe an afternoon. Just one lousy afternoon. If you want, they can stay in the neighborhood—”
“It has nothing to do with how long or how many times. It has nothing to do with that.”
“Then what?”
She saw the man she presumed was the manager eyeing them from behind the counter. He disappeared, then emerged from a side door across from their table. Molly, facing Frances, did not see him.
“You’re just upsetting yourself with that kind of reasoning,” Frances sighed, knowing it was not reasoning at all, but the hysterical voice of the woman’s heart. I can’t really help the way she feels, she told herself. I must not be manipulated. I must do what is best for Tray. For Peter. For my family.
“It’s wrong, Frances. Charlie says it’s against nature.”
She saw the man approach and swallowed her response, which, in any event, would have seemed belligerent. Tray does not exist to provide Charlie with psychiatric therapy, was what she had in mind, borrowing from Peter’s more scientific reasoning.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” the man said. “But you can’t hold that table for an unreasonable amount of time.” He waved his hand around the room. “We’re
loaded.”
“We’ll be ready very shortly,” Molly shot back.
“Really it’s not fair,” the man said.
“What’s fair?” Molly countered.
“I think he has a point,” Frances said.
“Thank you, lady,”
“In a minute, then.” Molly squinted up at him with unmistakable contempt, startling the man with her vehemence, but with enough authority to get him to leave. The gesture had the effect of making Frances step back even further from the abyss of pity.
“I really have to go, Molly.” To emphasize the point, she looked at her watch. “The woman I’ve got taking care of the baby can’t speak English.”
“So there’s nothing I can say or do?” Molly asked.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not much help.”
Frances lifted her eyes, and Molly met her glance directly. For a long moment, they held this stare across the table.
“I guess we have different priorities,” Frances said quietly. “I know you think I’m an unfeeling bitch, but I can’t help that.”
“Charlie does. I’m not sure. I like to think that you’re just obeying Peter’s wishes. That doesn’t help us, but in a funny way it does take the onus off our grandchild’s mother.”
Frances stood up. It was useless to continue the conversation. Besides, she was getting another cramped feeling in her uterus and had begun to get anxious about the baby.
“So I’ll see you in court,” Molly said, rising. Her dress was creased and a strained look gave her an air of desperation and confusion. So different from their first meeting when Chuck had brought Frances to his home. Molly had seemed so formidable then, crisp, self-assured, wise and knowing. It was not that old Molly that she saw now, and their confrontation had only widened the distance between them. It’s over, she told herself. Yesterday is dead.
“It’s a free country,” Frances said, with a haughtiness she had not intended.
They moved through the crowds to the street. Frances walked ahead. But once outside, she stopped and waited for Molly to catch up. No sense leaving this meeting with spitefulness, she thought, reaching out her hand. Molly looked at it, hesitating, then took it and shook it vigorously.
