The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  A smile broke through Abby’s determined gloom. “I suppose I could…if you think it’s okay after… after…”

  “I think it’s okay,” Sara said quietly, and on Sunday afternoon she was quiet in the car as Abby drove to the gallery, giving no instructions other than telling her the right exit and which streets to take, hoping Abby did not see her dig her right foot into the floor mat as if she were stepping on the brake. She concentrated on Abby’s driving, not letting herself think about Reuben’s telephone call the night before. He had called while they were watching movies in the library, saying he had reserved airline tickets and asking if she could go with him. “Yes,” she said, and Reuben said, simply, “I’m very glad,” adding that he would pick her up on Monday morning, to drive to the airport. “No, I’d rather meet you there,” she replied. And that was all, as if they had agreed in advance that if there was to be emotion, the time for it was not yet.

  “That was excellent,” she said as Abby parked in the small lot beside the gallery. “You’re really good, Abby,” said Doug, opening the back door. “I wasn’t worried or scared or anything.”

  Abby put her arm around him without replying; she could not decide whether to be elated at doing well and pleasing Sara, or in despair, because she really was suffering.

  “Well, if it isn’t our little artist,” said Frank Stoaner jovially as Doug led the way into the gallery.

  Doug stopped uncertainly. Little?

  Sara moved around him. “We’re picking up Doug’s sculptures. We don’t need help; I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “They’re gone,” Doug cried, looking around. “Where are they?”

  “In back.” Stoaner rumpled Doug’s hair. “Can’t keep ’em here forever, you know, the show came down. But we took care of ’em for you; they’re all packed up in the back room.”

  “But—”

  “It was a one-night show,” Frank said impatiently. “Never planned for anything else.”

  “One night?” Abby repeated. She had been contemplating two full-size mattresses hanging from the ceiling with road maps painted on them, but she turned to glare at Frank. “Exhibits don’t last just one night.”

  “Some do,” he said dismissively.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s how it is.”

  “But why?”

  He threw up his hands. “I’ll get your boxes.”

  “Just a minute,” Sara said. “I’d also like to know why.”

  “Because they’re different,” he said angrily. “I run my gallery the way I want to, and each show is different.”

  “I understand that. I don’t understand why you wanted to give a ten-year-old boy a one-night exhibit.”

  “Look, I don’t want to quarrel with you—”

  “Quarrel? I’m asking a simple question. No one is quarreling.”

  “Ask your brother,” he said after a moment.

  “I’m asking you. I’m aware that Mack arranged it with you, but he never told us it would be for one night. What was the arrangement?”

  “Look, I did him a favor. He’ll tell you about it.”

  “But I’m asking you. What’s the problem? If it was a simple business arrangement, it should be simple to explain.” She pulled over the stool Doug had sat on when his show opened. “I’m willing to wait for an answer.”

  Stoaner looked from Sara to Abby and Doug, and back to Sara. He gazed at the mattresses behind Abby. “Fuck it,” he muttered. “Do a guy a favor and it’s like you have to go on trial. I owed him something,” he flung at Sara. “My partner and I, we owed him. So we gave him one night. Shit, lady, I’m running a legitimate business here, you think I can keep the place cluttered up with crap from a fucking kid?”

  Doug turned pale; his eyes widened and filled with tears. He stared at Frank as if he could not turn away.

  “You bastard!” Abby cried, and putting her arm around Doug, dragged him out the door.

  “Yes, I actually think that’s the right word,” Sara said. She walked past Stoaner to the back of the gallery, and into a brightly lit room stacked with paintings wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper, and, in a corner, six boxes with Mack’s name on them. Silently, Sara picked up the top box and walked back through the gallery, setting it beside the entrance. When she returned, Stoaner roused himself and followed her, and without speaking they carried the boxes to the car and stowed them in the trunk. Abby and Doug were not to be seen.

  Sara slammed shut the trunk and turned, gazing steadily at Stoaner. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Nice kid, you know.” With a vague gesture, he went back inside the gallery.

  “Abby,” Sara said without raising her voice. Abby and Doug came around the corner of the building, Doug’s face streaked with tears, Abby holding him close to her side.

  Doug flung himself at Sara. “Mack said I was good, he said I deserved a show.” The words were strangled. “He said they wanted me in the gallery. He said that. Why did he lie?”

  Sara’s arms were around him. “I suppose to make you happy.”

  “I’m not happy!”

  “But you were, and I’m sure he never thought you’d find out.”

  “He shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “You’re right. Lies backfire too often. But maybe Mack hasn’t figured that out. I think he swings back and forth between lies and the truth all the time.”

  Doug stopped crying. “He does?”

  “I think so.”

  “I do, too,” Abby said. “I mean, he talks like everything is wonderful, and he’s wonderful, but you know, maybe it’s not true.”

  Doug was scowling. “He lies a lot?”

  “I think so,” Sara said, “but we don’t know for sure. Come on, now, let’s get home. Abby, why don’t you sit in back with Doug? I’ll drive.”

  “That guy, what’s-his-name, was wrong about Doug,” Abby said as Sara drove out of the parking lot.

  Sara nodded. “He’s wrong about a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I assume what he owes Mack is payment for drugs.” She remembered when Tess had written drugs, after Mack had been there, and she had thought it meant Mack’s smoking marijuana. But that had not been what Tess meant: Mack must have hinted, or told her, that he was dealing. “Which means I’ll have to tell Mack to leave; he can’t live with us while he’s dealing from our house.”

  “I’ve smelled it, in his room,” Abby said.

  “I did, when he first arrived. I didn’t know he was still doing it. You didn’t tell me.”

  “It didn’t seem to matter. I mean, most of the time he was so nice…”

  “He isn’t nice, he’s a liar,” said Doug.

  “That wasn’t nice, but he bought me a car, and got Carrie’s stories published…you know, lots of things.”

  “Well, he’s out of our house as soon as I can talk to him,” Sara said.

  But that means I can’t go to New York. I have to make sure he’s gone, and it would have to be before tomorrow morning, and what chance is there of that?

  Her mouth tightened; she drove grimly, trying not to think. Behind her, Abby was telling Doug it was stupid to do drugs, and Mack was stupid for doing drugs and lying, and Franklin Stoaner was a stupid idiot, as Doug grunted in agreement, or simply to keep Abby talking.

  I’ll call Reuben as soon as we get home. Maybe we can find another time. As long as some other crisis doesn’t come along. How long will a man wait for a woman with three children to find a weekend for herself?

  Carrie came home from her friend’s house, and they had a quiet dinner; everyone seemed worn out. Sara had left a message on Reuben’s answering machine asking him to call her, and until then she kept her mind on dinner. When the telephone rang, she let Carrie run to answer it, putting off until the last minute saying aloud the refrain running through her mind. I can’t go. I can’t go. I can’t—

  “Sara, it’s Mack,” Carrie said, bringing the telephone to the dining room. “He
says he’s going away.”

  Sara snatched the telephone. “Going away?”

  “Not quite, sis.” His voice was jaunty. “Just a business trip, a few days, back Wednesday, maybe Thursday. Is that a problem?”

  “No! No, of course not. I appreciate your telling me. When you get back, I want to talk to you.”

  “Do I detect a note of criticism? I haven’t been home much, and haven’t told you my schedule? Sorry about that; guilty, he said guiltily, as charged. I’ll reform, I’ll improve, I’ll turn over a new—”

  “I’m not talking about your schedule. I have other things to talk to you about.”

  “When I get back, sis, I promise we’ll talk as long as you want, about shoes and ships and ceiling wax, and cabbages and kings. Bye, now, take care of the brood.”

  “You didn’t tell him,” Abby said as Sara hung up the telephone.

  “Tell him what?” Carrie asked.

  Sara let Abby and Doug describe their afternoon at the gallery. Everything is fine. I’m going with Reuben on Monday. Tomorrow is Monday and I’m going to New York with Reuben.

  And on Monday morning, for the first time since the accident, Abby went to school.

  “I’m proud of you,” Sara said, hugging her. “You’re very brave, and I’m absolutely sure everyone will help you.”

  “Sean won’t. He’ll be mean.” Her shoulders tensed. “I’m afraid to see him.”

  “I can’t believe he’ll be there, Abby. He committed a crime; there’s a price to pay for that. He can’t just go back to his old life as if nothing happened.”

  “You mean he might be in jail?”

  “We would have heard about it if he was. I don’t know where he is, but I don’t think you should worry about it.”

  “But what if he is in school?”

  “He won’t be,” Sara said sharply. “You’re working yourself up over nothing. Stop thinking about it. Let’s finish these lunches or you’ll all be late.” Casually, she added, “You’ll leave school with Doug and Carrie, so you all get home together?”

  “No,” Abby said sarcastically, “I’m going to hang out at school and let them wander around without anybody knowing where they are or what they’re doing.”

  Sara let it pass. “I’ll call around dinnertime.”

  “Well, we certainly couldn’t eat without hearing your voice.”

  “So I can hear your cheerful voices,” Sara said, “and tell you I love you.”

  Carrie was staring, not only at Abby’s nastiness, but also at Sara’s restraint. “Have lots and lots of fun,” she said, kissing Sara good-bye.

  “Bring us something,” said Doug, between short, smacking kisses. “Something that’s just New York, not Chicago.”

  “Bye,” said Abby, and after a hesitation, “I’m sorry I was mean.” She kissed Sara, then put her arms around her. “I truly hope you and Reuben have a good time.”

  With the click of the door shutting behind them, the stillness of the house settled around Sara. Usually by now she would be on her way to work, but nothing about today was usual. Her suitcase had been packed since dawn, when she had given up trying to sleep; she had her ticket, delivered by messenger on Sunday morning; she had chosen a book to take, hoping they would have too much to talk about to allow time for reading. A long note was on the kitchen island filled with instructions (“Don’t forget to turn off the oven when the lasagna is baked.” “Do not open the front door to anyone.” “My cell phone is always on.”). She could hear Abby groan and Carrie say, “But we know all that,” but she had not been able to stop adding other instructions and reminders until the list filled the page. Now, at the bottom, she wrote Reuben’s telephone number and added, “There’s a surprise DVD in the library for tonight.”

  And then, checking again to make sure the front and back doors were locked, she took a taxi to the airport.

  Reuben was waiting just inside the entrance to the airline’s lounge. They had not seen each other for almost a month.

  He took her hands in his. Conscious of the attendant seated at a desk nearby, he said simply, “Good morning; I’m glad to see you,” showed his membership card to the attendant, and he and Sara took the escalator to the second floor. Walking with him through the lounge, Sara was swept by an odd feeling of relief, as if now everything was all right and in place. She knew the future was still filled with unknowns, but still, there it was, that lightness and slight disorientation of relief.

  Reuben had left his roll-on and briefcase on a pair of armchairs in a corner of the lounge. He and Sara filled coffee cups at the sideboard and sat together, and he took her hand. “Thank you for making this happen; I imagine it wasn’t easy.”

  “Everyone said good-bye in very good spirits,” Sara said, as if it had been just that simple. “I think they’ll have a fine time and wonder why I don’t go away more often.”

  “That’s something we should think about.”

  Beyond the plate-glass window, planes pushed into and out from the gates and taxied across the tarmac, small cars scurried in between and among them, and trains of luggage carts zigzagged across the tarmac, teetering with suitcases, occasionally tossing off a few as they rounded corners, causing drivers to leap out and retrieve them, flinging them back on top as if they weighed no more than a volleyball. Reuben and Sara were only vaguely aware of the constant activity, but it kept them grounded rather than drifting into the misty landscape of romances where lovers dream and speak of a future they can hope for but never predict.

  In fact, they were rather somber, moving cautiously, like returning refugees alert for changes in the landscape, but mostly looking for anything familiar and loved.

  “I want you to know everything that’s happened,” Reuben said, “and how it happened, and where I am now.” His voice was low, almost drowned out by the loud conversations of those around them trumpeting business and life secrets on cell phones, and he and Sara leaned closer. “Later, when it’s quiet.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And I want to know about you, what you’ve been doing, about your work and your friends, what’s happening with Abby and Carrie and Doug. How was Doug’s gallery show? And Donna Soldana, did she ever show up again? And do you have a new secretary? And are Abby and Sean still together? From the little she told me, I thought she’d have problems there.” He smiled. “It sounds like an inquisition.”

  “It sounds like interest.” And involvement, she thought, surprised at how much he remembered, and how deeply he had let himself become a part of her in only a few months.

  “Much more than interest.” He glanced quickly at his watch. “We have time. There’s something else I want you to know. I reserved a room for you at a hotel near my apartment. I would very much like you to stay with me, but I want you to do whatever makes you comfortable.”

  Sara gave a small smile. “Abby would say, ‘How old-fashioned.’ ”

  “And she’d be right. But it’s good to be able to choose between past and present and take what’s best for you at the time.”

  “You do that in your work.”

  “Yes.” He was pleased; he liked being understood without having to explain or describe anything more than once.

  Sara looked through the window, remembering the long porch of a lodge in Galena, the silvery river in the hushed darkness, and Reuben’s arm holding her as he told her about his work. She said aloud one of the things he had said that she liked best. “ ‘I want people’s lives to mesh with a living environment, not concrete rectangles filled edge to edge with brick and steel, and only photographs to show them the past, what had been there before they arrived.’ ”

  “The way to a man’s heart,” Reuben murmured, “is to quote his words exactly. Thank you for that; it isn’t often I’m listened to so closely.” He finished his coffee, trying to concentrate on coffee, on dialogue, on the time (again looking at his watch), anything to keep him distracted from wanting her so urgently he could barely stay in his chair.
“Would you like some more?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “That night in Galena, when I talked about my work, was the night Abby called us old-fashioned.”

  Sara smiled. “And the desk clerk looked at us as if we were crazy.”

  There was a pause. Reuben could not sit still any longer. He looked again at his watch. “We should go; they’ll be boarding in a few minutes.”

  “Yes.” But they did not move. “I’d like very much to stay with you tonight,” she said.

  Their eyes met and Reuben knew, with relief and also with wonder, that her desire was as great as his. He kissed her palm, holding it against his lips. And that’s all we have to say right now, Sara thought. She was very happy. Neither of them would rush anything; they would move gradually, and everything would feel quite natural.

  On the plane, as the steward served orange juice and champagne, Sara asked about River Bend.

  Reuben opened his briefcase. “Thanks to you, we’re finally able to move ahead, I think to change the direction of things.” He told her what they had learned about Corcoran Enterprises, and gave her a copy of the brochure he had written. “I have an appointment on Friday with the mayors of River Bend and two neighboring towns, and I’m expecting to hear from the Tribune and the Sun-Times and, I hope, some of the people who’ve been demonstrating. If they’ve read the brochure, they’ll have questions. I may even hear from the kid who’s been organizing things out there, but probably not; he keeps out of sight.”

  Sara twisted her hands together. “I think it’s Mack.”

  “Mack? Your brother? That can’t be. He’s involved in this?”

  “I wish he weren’t.” She paused. “He works for Lew Corcoran.”

  “I didn’t know that. Is it coincidence? He came from New York and just happened to get a job with Corcoran who just happened to be a client of yours?”

  “None of that was coincidence. Mack had worked for Lew Corcoran in New York. He told Corcoran to call me when he and Pussy got to town, to help them get settled. He followed Corcoran to Chicago, working for Corcoran Enterprises. He told me that soon after he arrived; he said there was a great future in real estate. The only coincidence is that you and Corcoran want the same property, but even that is understandable, since there are so few large properties left.”