No Coming Back

by Jessie Salisbury

  He was filled with a sudden yearning to be outside, soaking up that warming sun, fill his lungs with clean fresh air, stretching his unused muscles. He looked at himself then, pasty white, flabby with the loss of almost twenty pounds from a frame too slim in the first place. His muscles were weak, his leg useless . . . “Damn him.”

  He told himself firmly, almost believing it, I’m twenty-seven years old, perfectly capable of making up my own mind. Jim has no more control over me. I don’t owe him anything. I made the break. I can’t go back.

  But he knew that wasn’t all true. He owed Jim Weston a great deal, both good and bad. He had not been a bad stepfather, until . . .

  Tex stopped in the doorway. “They’re coming, Rich. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  He heard them come in but didn’t say anything.

  “Rich, you ready to go home?” Dr. Hoadley asked.

  Rich turned and looked at Jim, big, hearty as ever, but without his usual grin. His face was pale under its coat of freckles and his red hair showed a little gray Rich had not noticed before. He said as firmly as possible, “Not with him.”

  Jim’s face took on a little color. “There’s no place else and your mother is expecting you, has a downstairs room ready for you.”

  Rich was afraid that had happened and he didn’t want to disappoint his mother, but he said, “There is now. Gina has found me an apartment downtown.”

  “You can’t make it alone.”

  “I can sure as heck try!”

  “I’ll be back in a while.” Dr. Hoadly went out, closing the door behind him.

  Jim sat down on the edge of the bed then rested his elbows on his knees. He expelled a long breath, drew in another, and said carefully, “At home you’ll have everything you need.” He stopped, not looking directly at Rich. “You can’t work the way you are now.”

  “I can walk, and there is nothing wrong with my hands.” My shoulder, maybe, and my back is a little stiff. “Gina has found several places where I might work.”

  “Who’s Gina?”

  “A good friend.”

  “How good?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  Jim took another deep breath, clamped his mouth shut, and said more quietly, “This isn’t getting us anywhere. You know your mother wants you to come home. She’s counting on it.”

  Rich didn’t answer. He knew that, and he loved his mother and hated disappointing her.

  “I know how you feel. I’m sorry. What else can I say?”

  “You’ve said enough. Now and then. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  Rich could see the anger growing in his eyes. Once he would have been afraid of that anger, but not now. Now it amused him. For once Big Jim Weston was powerless to get his own way. That knowledge strengthened Rich’s resolve.

  “After all I’ve done for you . . .”

  “You did just a little too much.”

  “I said I was sorry. I’ve paid all your bills.”

  “I didn’t ask you to and it isn’t enough. You can’t take back what you said. You didn’t trust me then, didn’t believe me, and you don’t now. I’m not a thief and I’m not a liar. You have never admitted you were wrong.”

  “Rich . . .”

  “So that’s that. Good-bye, Jim.”

  “That’s not that!” Jim’s voice was rising, getting shrill. “I’ve got a lot more to say to you.”

  Rich shrugged.

  Jim jumped down from the bed, his fist was clenched tight, whitening the knuckles. Rich didn’t move and Jim relaxed his hand, slowly letting it open again. His shoulders sagged a little.

  Rich felt a small wave of pity for him, remembering better days when he had admired this man, but he said as coldly as he could manage, “Go on, Jim, hit me. You didn’t hesitate before.”

  “I’d like to shake some sense into your head.”

  “Why? Because I don’t depend on you anymore? Because I think I can make something out of what I have left?” Rich slapped his lame leg. “What you’ve left me?”

  “You’re a fool. A pig-headed stubborn fool. Go on, try it alone, but don’t come running back to me if you don’t make it.”

  “I’d rather die first.”

  Jim jerked the door open, glared back over his shoulder, and was gone.

  “Good-bye, damn you,” Rich said to the empty room, “and I hope I never see you again.”

  One small corner of his mind nagged at him, You don’t mean that. He’s a great guy underneath all that bluster and you know it. Rich stifled the thought.

  Dr. Hoadley entered the room, tall, thin, very pale, with large hands. His usually twinkling eyes were gray and sober. “So you did it, did you?”

  “I did it.”

  “And what did it gain you?”

  “Satisfaction, maybe. My freedom, maybe.”

  “So you half kill him and yourself, too? To say nothing of your mother.”

  He didn’t want to think about his mother, confined to a wheelchair by a broken back. “Not really, doctor.”

  “And you and Gina Murphy? Is that serious?

  “No. I’ve known her a long time. She’s a friend of my sister.”

  “Your apartment is on the first floor?”

  “There’s an elevator. I’ll make out all right.”

  Dr. Hoadley opened his mouth as if to say something and changed his mind. After a moment he said tiredly, “You’ve been released, Rich. I’ve known you since you were born and I knew your father before that. I know better than to argue. Go and do as you please.”

  Rich didn’t answer.

  “But take care of yourself, and don’t kill yourself trying.”

  “Thanks.” And after another moment, he said, “Explain it to my mother, will you?”

  “I don’t understand it all myself.”

  Rich shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not going back. Not even for her.”

  “Is someone giving you a ride?”

  “Gina.”

  “All right.” The doctor held out his hand. “It’s your life. Rich, and I can’t tell you what’s right and what isn’t. I know whatever Jim did, or you think he did, he’s sorry for it.”

  Rich didn’t want to go there. “May I leave now?”

  “In a minute. I don’t think Jim told you, but your mother isn’t doing well. All of this has been hard on her, not being able to come see you. Besides, you always thought Jim was okay.”

  “I could have been wrong.”

  “Go home, Rich, at least for a little while. Give them, and you, another chance.”

  Rich stood up, hesitated a moment while he got control of his leg, and walked toward the door. “Good-bye, Dr. Hoadley, and thanks.”

  “I’ll walk out with you, to be sure you really have a ride. I can’t let you leave without one. Against the rules.”

  They stopped at the top of the ramp at the front door and looked out into the parking lot. The sun was warm on his bare head and Rich breathed deeply of the fresh air, felt the coming spring, and was sad. Spring meant baseball, and baseball brought back thoughts of his father.

  His father had always said that of all the springs he had seen, and he’d seen them in many places, the best were in southern New Hampshire. There was a softness in the air, something beyond the scent of the sap rising in the pines and maples, the early flowers. Of course, he’d always add, This is home and that might make a difference.

  Waiting by the door for Gina, Rich remembered other springs, playing ball with his father, and then at school. The memory hurt, a deep ache in his heart that told him he would never play again. He would walk, maybe eventually jog, but he would not play ball. A truth he had tried to avoid, but it was baseball weather and his fi
ngers itched to hold a ball, and his arm ached to tense, pause, and throw that ball to first base.

  Then he saw the red convertible pull out of a side street, read the license plate GINA. He turned to Dr. Hoadly, smiled, and held out his hand. “My ride has arrived. Thanks for everything.”

  Dr. Hoadley shook his hand firmly, but didn’t say anything.

  Rich walked carefully down the ramp to where the car had stopped.

  ~ ~ ~

  Doctor Ben Hoadley watched them leave, frowning, his hands thrust in his pockets. He wondered, as he had often wondered, what had happened. Why such a promising boy had turned into a bitter, disillusioned young man. Why do families split and form factions, fighting like dogs over a bone? And what will this do to his mother? And how on earth am I going to tell her?

  He put the problem that was Richard Summers into another part of his mind to consider later, and went back to his other patients. He would see Jewel Weston this evening when he stopped to play cards with Jim. She’ll undoubtedly need a sedative . . .

  ~ ~ ~

  Rich climbed into the convertible slowly, carefully, and more than a little painfully.

  Gina, petite and bouncy and right now blond, smiled at him. “Hi, handsome. I see you did it.”

  “Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “I wondered. I’ll get you home where you can rest.”

  “Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat first.”

  “Can’t. I worked last night and have to work tonight, remember? I’m half-dead.”

  “Sure. I’m so happy to be out of there I can’t argue with anyone.”

  “Even your stepfather?”

  “Even him.”

  “There was no trouble?”

  “Not much.”

  “Are you glad?”

  “Yup.” He wondered for a moment if he really was. He could still see the anger on Jim’s face, and the hurt deep in his eyes that had surprised him. “I’m through with him.”

  “Good. You and I belong together.”

  “Absolutely.” Rich turned a little in the seat so he could watch her. Slim, short, and shapely, with a pert Italian face and the incongruous blond hair. He had known her years ago with almost black hair. The original Irish-Italian she’d said when he questioned the name. “My father wanted to name me Bridget, but Ma could talk rings around Pa any day. So I’m Gina. Gina, Rosa, Maria, Bridget Murphy.”

  “Gina . . .” Rich started now.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think I really did the right thing? I mean, can I manage on my own?”

  “Silly. You’re not alone. You’ve got me.”

  “I’ve got to work.” Short-term disability did not go very far, even without any medical bills to pay. He did thank Jim for that.

  “I know. I’ve found a couple of places where you can work sitting down. The pay isn’t much, but with the right exercise, no strain, your leg will get stronger and you can do something else.” She reached over and patted his knee. “We’ll see it through, Dickie.”

  He hated that nickname and had told her so countless times. “I hope so.”

  She grinned at him. “Now, don’t worry. Smile.”

  He managed one for her.

  “That’s my Dickie.”

  She left him at his apartment, three cramped rooms above a little shop on Factory Street, one of several apartments in a former warehouse. The place was clean, and Gina had stocked the refrigerator for him. But it was airless and cheerless, and he was remembering the big house on Manchester Street where he could have gone. He tried to shut it out, but the dull beige walls of his bedroom were not conducive to forgetting those wide sunlit rooms. He lay down on the hard bed, his knee throbbing from pacing around the apartment.

  In his dream, he’d said to the figure of Jim Weston, “I’m right. You know I’m right. Just once, let me be right.” He awoke still saying it and lay shivering, not with cold but with something, he could not explain. He said aloud, to convince himself, “Damn it, I’m right!”

  He closed his eyes, forced himself to think of something else, something better: Gina’s bright smile, a new day, spring, and baseball. He was, at least, out of rehab and on his way to getting better.

  3.

  At 4:30 on the 17th of April, Ken Weston quit work, told his father he was leaving, and drove out of the city to a garden supply store in a suburban shopping mall. He glanced around the yard, recognized no one, and got out of his Chevy Blazer. He walked slowly past the displays of garden implements and bushes in their burlap root balls, and stopped in front of a bench filled with flats of pansies in an unimaginable array of colors. He looked at them without really seeing them.

  He asked himself why he was there, why Wendy had called and asked him to meet her. Why go to all this trouble when she can see me at home any time she wants to?

  He saw the dark blue Prius drive in and stop beside his car, but he didn’t move. A tall, slightly chubby blond girl climbed out and came toward him. He read trouble on her pretty face and it hurt. He unconsciously caught his breath and held it as she stopped beside him.

  “Ken,” she said, also staring at the array of pansies, “thanks for coming.”

  “But why, Wendy? Why like this? What’s wrong? Why not come to the house? Mother would be happy to talk to you.”

  “I can’t. I can’t admit I’ve failed.”

  “What’s failed? I don’t understand. Everything seems to be okay.”

  “Frank. I can’t stand anymore.”

  Appalled at the implication, he asked, “He hurt you?” He couldn’t believe it of his brother-in-law, even if he did consider him something of a nerd.

  She shook her head. “Not that way, Ken. Worse. He’s impossible. He’s a perfectionist and I’m not. He wants so much more of me than I can give.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I have to talk to somebody.”

  “Why not Mother?”

  “She’d tell Jim and he’d say I told you so.”

  Ken laughed. “He probably would, but what can I do? I don’t really care for Frank, either.”

  “I know. No one understands why I married him.”

  “So why did you?”

  She sighed. “I was in love. He’s so smart, has so much potential. I was flattered, still am I guess, that he would choose me.”

  Ken saw a clerk coming their way and asked, “Which pansies would Mother like?”

  “What?” Wendy, too, saw the young man approaching them. “Oh. She likes the big ones, like those white ones with the lavender centers, or those deep maroon or the tangerine ones. Anything but plain old purple and yellow.”

  Ken picked up the indicated flats and handed them to the clerk. “I’d like to look around a little more.”

  The boy shrugged. “Go ahead. These will be on the counter.”

  When he was far enough away, Wendy said, “I just wanted someone to talk to.”

  “Talk away. That’s what big brothers are for.”

  “I never considered you my brother, Ken. You know that.”

  “I thought you didn’t, any more than I thought of you as a sister, until you met Frank Powers. You didn’t even notice me after that.”

  She continued to contemplate the pansies.

  “I still love you, Wendy.”

  She kept her face turned from him. “It can’t be, couldn’t happen, you know that. Even if we aren’t really related.”

  He had always known that. Stepsisters are still sisters. “Did you know that Rich left the rehab place this morning?”

  She raised her head. “With Jim?”

  Ken shook his head. “Dad doesn’t know where he went. He was so mad when he came back to work he coul
dn’t talk, so I didn’t get much out of him.”

  “Rich stood by his guns, did he? Poor Mother.”

  “Poor everybody until Dad gets over it or Rich comes home.”

  “He won’t. Ken, I’m sorry. I was just upset.”

  “It’s all right, will be all right.”

  “No, it isn’t. Nothing is all right.”

  “Any time you want to talk, just give me a call.”

  “Thanks.” She stepped away from him.

  “Wendy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry I said what I did a moment ago.”

  “That you still loved me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not. I’m glad somebody does because I don’t think Frank does any more. I have to have somebody.”

  “Things will work out.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I know they will.”

  “Good-bye, Ken, and thanks. Thanks for always being my brother.”

  “Sure, Wendy, any time.”

  He watched her walk back to her car, climb in, and drive away without looking back at him. He paid for the flowers and then got into his own car, disturbed as always when she was upset. She had been so much closer than a stepsister and he had hoped for more. Much more.

  Is it wrong to want a marriage to fail?

  ~ ~ ~

  At five o’clock on the 17th of April, Jewel Weston finished setting her dining room table with her best china and silver and placed an antique brass urn filled with mixed flowers in the center of the buffet between the tall windows. She called to Viola Evans to come and view the effect.

  The stout gray-haired cook came in from the kitchen wiping her hands on her white apron. There were worry furrows on her forehead but she was smiling.

  “Do you like it, Vi?” Jewel asked. “Does it look all right?”

  “It looks fine.”

  “Do you think he’ll like it? I wish I had roses. Richard always loved roses. And lilacs, but it’s too early for them.” She put her hands on the wheels of her chair and maneuvered it around the table. “Do you really like it, Vi?”