“Do you really think so?” Caleb put his head down again; his words were directed to the floor pad beneath his feet.
“I know so,” said Lincoln. “I’m positive, in fact.”
“I can’t face him. Not tonight, not with everyone there.”
“You bet you can.” When Caleb didn’t answer, he went on. “Look, what are your options? You want to kick him out now, fine. I get that. But if you do, most likely there will be a scene—a big one too. So you’ll be making a scene on the day of Angelica’s wedding. Which will hurt her, no matter how you slice it.”
“I have a reason. A good reason.”
“Sure you do. But will Angelica see it that way? And when you look back on this day, will you?”
Caleb remained silent. Lincoln looked past him, out of the window. Did the sky look a little less sunny, a shade more gray? He directed his gaze upwards. Definitely some cloud action going on up there. Was it going to rain? Jesus, he hoped not.
“Look, Dad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here.” Caleb lifted his head from the steering wheel. “But it’s not going to work.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s different. You had time to process everything with Mom before tonight. Plenty of time. For me it’s all brand-new.”
“I know that, big guy, but—” said Lincoln.
“And could you please stop calling me big guy?” Caleb said. “It’s getting a little old.”
“Okay,” Lincoln said, more hurt than he would let on. “Okay.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence, in which Lincoln wished, in that idle way that recovered drunks could still wish, for a drink. He remembered achingly the way the late-afternoon light hit his whisky glass with its merry cargo of ice cubes as the sun turned the brownish liquid to shimmering gold; the anticipatory, almost tingling chill of the green beer bottle when first pulled from the fridge. Just one, he thought. Just one…
“Sorry.” Caleb interrupted his fantasy. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just upset, that’s all. No, more than upset. I’m furious, heartbroken, and slightly out of my mind. There’s my mental state, twenty-five words or less.”
“Look, I know what you’re going through.” Lincoln stopped himself just in time from saying big guy. It was going to take him a little while to reprogram. “And I want to help.” He was almost afraid to ask the next question, but he asked it anyway. “So what are you going to do tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Caleb said, slipping the key into the ignition. “I can’t promise anything.”
“You’ll have to deal with Angelica,” Lincoln said. “And remember—crossing her is no picnic.”
“Angelica!” Caleb said. “What a prima donna! You’d think no one else in the world ever got married before.”
“That’s Angelica, all right,” Lincoln said.
“Dad, you sound like you admire her!”
“You’re damn straight I do,” Lincoln said. “In fact, more than admire her, I love her for being such a royal pain in the ass. That girl”—and here his heart swelled with a crazy, convoluted sort of pride—“knows how to get what she wants out of life.” Caleb laughed, even though it came out as more of a snort than anything. He started up the car, and off they went.
But wait—what had Caleb said earlier? That Lincoln favored Angelica? Christ. Lincoln wished fervently that he could take the words he’d just uttered and stuff them right back in his mouth. “Caleb, did you mean what you said to me before?” he asked. “About my loving Angelica more than the rest of you?”
“Of course,” said Caleb, eyes on the road. “Why would I have said it if I didn’t mean it?”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Lincoln said. This, more than anything else, made him feel like a failure.
“Don’t worry about it, Dad,” said Caleb, still looking straight ahead. “I know you love me and the rest of us. We all know. But we also know how Angelica kind of casts a spell over everyone. Guys especially. Teddy calls her the sorceress. No one is immune—not even you.”
Not even me, Lincoln thought sadly. This whole interlude had turned out to be a major bust: the toilet, the towel rack, being rescued by his son instead of the other way around. He hadn’t been able to help Caleb deal with Bobby, that cheating little turd, either. And to cap it off, hearing that his preference for Angelica was just common knowledge among his kids, one more annoying trait of his that they had to contend with. Lincoln let his eyes linger on the passing scenery. The spreading trees and verdant lawns of Great Neck sped by, taunting apparitions of wealth and privilege that he would never, ever come even close to having.
Well, he had tried, hadn’t he? Tried to be the caring, supportive dad that all his years on the sauce had kept him from being. But it looked like he was a bit late. He had no idea what would go down tonight; all Lincoln could do was stick close to Caleb and try to contain the damage. Right now there was the more immediate hurdle of facing Betsy and the Bozo. Once again the siren song of a drink, just one, just one, started to hum in his waiting ear.
“Did you know that Ennis showed up?” Caleb asked after a few minutes.
“I heard,” Lincoln said but did not volunteer how he had obtained this information. “How is Gretchen taking it?” He had not forgotten his promise to Angelica either; he would talk to Gretchen just as soon as he could.
“All right. I guess.”
“No shit.” Lincoln was skeptical. Nasty business with his ex-son-in-law: the girl, the pregnancy, and the suicide attempt that yanked Gretchen into her sorry-ass orbit. Did that girl have her baby yet? Did his granddaughters know? Jesus, what did guys these days want? Gretchen could not hold a candle to Angelica—no one could—but she was a damn fine-looking woman. Smart too. Okay, so she was a bit humorless. A bit lost at times. But she was a devoted wife, a caring mother. She’d loved that kilt-wearing guy of hers—yes, she did. He could tell. So why had Ennis let his dick do his thinking? Thrown away a good woman, a nice house, a couple of kids, all for a roll in the hay with a schoolgirl? A schoolgirl he’d gone and knocked up. Jeez. Lincoln, whose own transgressions had been legion, understood the enormity of what Ennis had done. And he took a useless satisfaction in knowing that despite everything, he hadn’t cheated on Betsy. No matter how damn drunk he’d been.
“You don’t believe me?”
“How would I know?” Lincoln said. “I haven’t seen her or talked to her yet.” He wanted to, though, and not just because he had told Angelica he would. He wanted to see them all. Immediately. He willed himself not to ask, Are we there yet?
Instead he turned his attention to the sky once more. Crap. Those looked like rain clouds; they sure as hell did. “Do you think it’s going to rain?” he asked Caleb. But he suddenly lost interest in the answer, because Caleb had just pulled into the grand, curving driveway that led to Betsy’s house.
Lincoln stared. He’d never actually been here before; he’d seen pictures sent by the kids and heard their descriptions, dripping with detail. But hearing and seeing were two decidedly different things. It was even bigger than he expected, and its two massive, elaborately carved wooden doors were flanked by stone urns that spilled magenta flowers. Betsy had always wanted flowers by the front door, hadn’t she? Well, now she had them.
While Caleb parked, Lincoln attempted to check his breath discreetly, using the palm of his hand. But, hell, why bother? That’s what mints were for, right? He popped one in his mouth and held out the roll to Caleb. Caleb shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said, and the casual coldness in his voice was another snub. Then he got out of the car and closed the door with a small, articulate slam, leaving Lincoln to face his ex-wife all on his own.
Eleven
“There you are!” Gretchen said to Caleb when she found him out on the lawn, near the dolphin statue. “I’ve been looking everywhere!” The sky above had grown gray and heavy with clouds; it looked like it was about to pour any second.
“I went to get Dad,” he sa
id. “Sorry if I worried you.” But he didn’t sound sorry, not a bit.
“You could have told me that’s where you were going,” Gretchen said. “I wanted to talk to you.” Was that ominous sound she heard a rumble of distant thunder?
“Well, you found me; what do you want to say?” He stopped and put his hands on his hips, a truculent stance better suited to a five-year-old.
“Caleb, would you stop being such a little shit? I know you’re upset, but—”
“You think you know! Dad thinks he knows! But what do any of you know? Nothing! Not a thing.”
“All right, then,” she said. “If you’re not interested in being consoled, fine. Have your little tantrum.” Leaving him in that rigid, unyielding posture, she turned to go back to the house. It was only when she could no longer see him that she heard behind her the sound of his weeping.
Gretchen paused. Should she go back and risk being rebuffed again? Or should she let him tough it out on his own? Compassion won, and she turned. She approached quickly and sank down to the grass where he now sat curled like a shrimp with his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “So very sorry.”
Caleb continued to cry quietly.
“And no matter what you think, I do know how you feel. I lived it too, remember?”
“I guess you did,” Caleb said, lifting his wet face to look at her. His nose was running, and Gretchen handed him a tissue from the packet in her jeans pocket.
“Only I didn’t actually catch them in the act the way you did,” she continued. “But then there was the little matter of the pregnancy and the botched suicide attempt. That kind of evens things out.”
“Okay, okay,” Caleb said. “So you’re in the club too.” He blew his nose loudly.
“Club?”
“The Duped and Dumped Club.”
“The Duped and Dumped Club,” said Gretchen. “I like it. It has a nice ring. But it’s not exactly accurate, you know. I mean, we were both duped, but in my case, I did the dumping. And in yours, the outcome remains to be seen, right?” When Caleb didn’t answer, Gretchen added, “What are you going to do, anyway? I assume you’re going to talk to him.”
“Dad said he thought I should wait,” Caleb said.
“Wait?” said Gretchen. “Why would you do that? I don’t think waiting is a useful strategy.”
“Well, what do you expect from Dad? His emotional range extends from about one glass of scotch to the next.”
“That’s mean,” Gretchen said. “And, besides, that’s not even true anymore.” Her father had spent a good portion of their childhood drinking, but he’d been sober a long time, and Caleb’s assessment seemed a bit harsh. Anyway, where was her father? Why hadn’t he come to say hello? “Is Dad here now? I didn’t see him.”
“He went inside to say hello to Mom and Angelica.”
Well, no surprise there. The other women in the family came first for her father. Gretchen was, as ever, the afterthought. She was surprised that this information—hardly new—hurt as much as it did; a film of unshed tears momentarily blurred her vision. But she blinked them away and all she said to her brother was, “Why did Dad think you should wait before talking to Bobby?”
“Because of the wedding, of course! The all-important, everything-must-be-perfect-for wedding. He was worried I might make a scene. Well, I just might.”
“Ah, the wedding,” Gretchen said. There was another rumble of thunder; this one sounded closer. “The wedding that may very well take place in the rain.”
“There’s a tent,” Caleb said. “No, there are two. It’s beginning to look like Disney World around here.”
“Angelica is not going to be happy if it rains,” Gretchen said. “Tents or no tents.”
“Tough luck,” Caleb said. “She may order Mom, Don, and all their minions around, but she doesn’t have any clout with the weather.” He wadded up his used tissue and flicked it across the lawn. “Not a bit.”
“You’re littering! On Mom’s property!” Gretchen said in mock admonition. “That’s a serious transgression. Much worse than using an upstairs towel at the pool.”
“Big deal,” Caleb said. “She’s got someone to clean up, remember? We’ve seen him. He’s no doubt good at…so many things.”
“Don’t I know it,” Gretchen said.
“What?” He turned to scrutinize her. “Don’t tell me he was doing you too.”
“Only in my dreams,” Gretchen said. “He is a piece, you know. And he struck up a conversation with me, that’s all. How did I know he liked boys?”
“Well, maybe not all boys. But he liked Bobby just fine.”
“So where exactly is Bobby-boy-toy at the moment?” asked Gretchen.
“Damned if I know. Or care,” said Caleb. But this remark was clearly just bravado.
Before Gretchen could reply, the rain started coming down, delicately at first and then quickly turning to big, fat drops that splashed their knees and shoulders, hands and faces.
“Come on, we’d better go inside,” Gretchen said, jumping to her feet.
“It’s raining!” Caleb cried. “Raining! Angelica is going to have a fit.”
“A major fit,” Gretchen said as they hurried toward the house. “A fit to end all fits.” The rain was drenching; her T-shirt was already soaked.
“I just can’t believe it’s going to rain on Angelica’s wedding.”
“Caleb, you actually sound happy about this.”
“Me? Happy? Oh no, no, no, big sis! I’m not happy it’s going to screw up Angelica’s wedding. But I am happy about the rain.” They had reached the kitchen door. “Very happy.”
“Why?” Water was streaming down her hair and into her eyes. Drenched and shimmying, Caleb broke into a more than passable imitation of the Temptations singing their 1967 hit. “Oh, I wish it would rain,” he crooned into an imaginary microphone.
“You’re nuts!” Gretchen said, but she was laughing, and he was laughing too. It was good to see him laugh. Still giggling, they went inside and upstairs together.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked when they reached the door to her room.
“I’m going to find him,” Caleb said, serious again. “I think I should do that before tonight. Otherwise God only knows what I’ll do when I see him at the wedding. There’s going to be a lot of breakables floating around, and I’m not sure I trust myself; things could get ugly. To say nothing of loud.”
Trying to decide whether he meant it, Gretchen studied his face. Finally she said, “I’ll check in with you later, okay?”
“Later,” he said. “Got it.” He leaned over to give her a quick peck on the cheek, and on impulse she pulled him to her in a tight hug. Uh-oh. He might feel patronized and push her away. But, no, he not only submitted to the embrace; he actually returned it.
“Caleb,” she said when he had released her. “Caleb, I have to ask you something.” She was still clammy, and chilled too, but she didn’t want to let the moment slip away; it might not come again.
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think Angelica is Dad’s favorite?” The hug gave her the permission to ask.
“You’re almost forty, and you don’t know the answer to that?” He gently tugged the wet band of his shorts away from his waist.
“I always thought so when we were kids. But I hoped it would have changed by now. That giving up the booze would have opened his eyes a little more. Let him see that we were there too.”
“Dad is Dad,” Caleb said. “He loves us. He really does. But he loves her most of all.”
To her surprise—and apparently to Caleb’s—Gretchen’s own eyes filled up with tears, which spilled neatly, in a pair of lines, down the center of each cheek.
“Hey,” he said, gathering her once more in his embrace. “Hey, don’t take it so hard. He can’t help it, okay? No one can. You love who you love.”
You love whom you love, the editor in Gretchen wanted to correct. But did not. She
looked searchingly into her brother’s face. But she wasn’t seeing him, not at all. Instead she had a vision of her two daughters—wrinkled, wet, and just minutes old—clutched tightly in Ennis’s arms.
Caleb turned away, headed toward his room, and Gretchen was about to go into hers when Teddy appeared—also soaked, still wearing the god-awful flowered trunks—and stopped her. He had one of the yellow-and-turquoise towels wrapped around his head, like a pasha, and another wrapped around his shoulders. Was it also considered a transgression to bring the pool towels up here to the second floor?
“So what’s the deal with Caleb?” he asked. “You can tell me now; Marti’s in our room, changing.”
“I like her,” Gretchen said, wanting to deflect the question.
“That’s great; me too. But you haven’t answered.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Gretchen said. “Wouldn’t that be the best thing?”
Teddy didn’t say anything but reached up to steady the makeshift turban; it looked in danger of coming loose. “Caleb doesn’t really confide in me,” he said finally.
“Has that ever bothered you before?” Gretchen crossed her arms over her chest.
“No,” Teddy said in what felt like a rare moment of candor. “It hasn’t.”
“So then why do you expect him to now? And why do you even care?”
“I don’t know,” Teddy said. “Maybe it has to do with the wedding. Or Marti. Or both.” Gretchen was interested; this line of conversation was so not like Teddy, and she wanted to hear more. “Caleb’s always been so…emotional. Easily upset, you know? I just couldn’t relate.”
“But you think you can now?”
“Marti’s been after me,” Teddy said. The turban sprung loose from its tentative moorings, unfurling as it collapsed. “She thinks I shouldn’t alienate my family. And she wants me to be more open, more in touch with my feelings.” He sounded mocking.
“Which you are not interested in doing.”
“Feelings!” Teddy exclaimed. “Why is everyone always bitching and moaning about feelings? You do it too, Gretch.” Gretch (it had a most unfortunate resemblance to retch) was a childhood nickname she loathed now every bit as much as she had loathed it then; just hearing it made her want to terminate this conversation immediately. But something told her to stay, to wait it out. Teddy wasn’t using it to rile her; he’d really seemed to slip back into some earlier, more approachable incarnation of himself. “What good are feelings?” he continued. “What matters is what you do, how you act.”
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