The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  He drove north, along the lake, to the suburbs. He parked near the Baha’i Temple in Wilmette, but the sun was going down and in the darkening streets the house lights went on, one by one, little golden squares in solid brick houses with their front doors closed, and he knew no one would open a door to him or even wanted him on their street, so he drove away, hating Wilmette, hating the houses and everybody in them.

  He had to leave Chicago, he knew that, but there was no place waiting for him, not a city or town where he could call somebody and ask for a place to crash for a few nights. There were a couple of girls in New York, but he’d walked out on them without a word when Corcoran dangled a bigger salary and easy work and Chicago. Not New York, Mack thought. Home. I’ll go home.

  “Home,” he said aloud, sitting in his car, the car he hated now, because it smelled of urine and sweat and was beginning to feel like a prison. “That’s where I belong. Anyway, it’s dinnertime. Have to eat, keep up my strength.”

  Traffic was heavy in both directions when he drove south on Lake Shore Drive, and it took a long time to get to his neighborhood, and then to find a parking place. At one time he would have parked anywhere, taken his chances on cops checking the area, but tonight he could not risk a ticket and having them check his license plate. Someone could have seen him enter Corcoran’s garage or leave it at the time the coroner would say Corcoran had died.

  Unless it took him a long time to bleed to death, in which case there was no problem.

  Or he was not dead. Mack began to shiver in the warm September evening. He put his hands in his pants pockets and felt the slime of the blood-soaked napkin. I can’t! he howled silently. I don’t—I’m not—I haven’t—

  Nothing made sense; there were no words for the ripping apart of his world.

  “Hey!” Carrie exclaimed as he bolted past her bedroom on the way to the third-floor stairs. “Weren’t you going away for a few days?”

  Mack kept going, taking the stairs two at a time.

  “Boy, are you friendly,” Carrie shouted after him. “We had dinner, lasagna, do you want—” But he was gone; she heard him stomping around upstairs.

  She went to Abby’s room. “Weird,” she said.

  “What is?” Doug asked, coming from his room.

  “Mack. He’s upstairs, in an awful mood.”

  “Mack?” Abby cried. “He can’t be.”

  “He’s not supposed to be here,” Doug said.

  Carrie shrugged. “He didn’t say anything, he was running.”

  “Probably had to pee,” Doug said. “I don’t want him here; I hate him. He lied to me about my show, he probably lies all the time, I hate him.” He turned toward the stairs. “I’m gonna tell him, I’m gonna—”

  “Don’t do that!” Carrie cried. “He’s really mad about something, you don’t want him mad at you, too. Leave him alone.”

  “I won’t. He lied to me. He acted like he liked me, and he told me how good I was, and it was all lies! He’s a liar and I’m gonna tell him I hate him.”

  “No, you’re not,” Abby said angrily. She didn’t want to deal with Doug’s volatility right now, or Mack’s anger—and why was he there, anyway?—it was all just too much. “You’re going back to your room and finish your homework.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I said so and I’m in charge! Now go on!”

  She turned her back and bent over her desk, not seeing anything on it. She was so angry she was shaking. She’d managed to act like Sara all through dinner, asking about their day at school, really listening to what they said, making sure they had plenty of lasagna, even cutting an extra piece of chocolate cake for Doug. She’d been so good when all she wanted was to shut herself in her room so she could think about herself and her feelings. She was very confused these days. Her misery wasn’t as strong as it had been; it was like a mosquito bite that itches, and then stops, and starts and stops, off and on, for no reason. But how could it stop, when she knew what she’d done, and how awful Sean had been, and how nothing would be the same, ever again?

  At school everyone had been really nice, greeting her as if she’d just been away on a trip, except for that kid in the seventh grade who asked if she was going to try out for the Indy 500 next, and she just ignored him. But Sean wasn’t there and she couldn’t ignore that because, the truth was, as much as she’d feared seeing him, somehow she wanted to see him, so she could ignore him, or maybe let him explain things in a way that made sense so she could forgive him. But he wasn’t in school, which is what Sara had thought would happen. But then, where was he? In jail? Or back in England? It was awful not knowing, and she couldn’t telephone his house, or ask about him; she couldn’t let anyone know she was even interested.

  So now she was in her room, finally alone, finally peaceful and quiet, and then Mack all of a sudden came back, Carrie and Doug wanted to talk, Doug wanted to march up to the third floor… and I’m supposed to take care of all that. It isn’t fair. I’m not ready to be responsible. She felt very sorry for herself, but also noble, because she was doing all this for Sara.

  The telephone rang and Doug leaped for it.

  “Hi, love, is everything fine at home?” Sara asked.

  “Sure, where are you?”

  “New York, you know that.”

  “Yeah, but you sound like you’re right here.”

  “Let me.” Carrie grabbed the telephone. “Sara, Mack’s here.”

  “What? He said he’d be out of town.”

  “I know, but he came in a few minutes ago. He looked really mad at the world.”

  “What did he say? Is he bothering you?”

  “He didn’t say anything, he ran upstairs, didn’t even say hello. He didn’t want any dinner, either.”

  “Let me talk to Abby, please, Carrie.”

  “But I can tell you—”

  “I know you can, sweetheart, I just want to talk to Abby.”

  Carrie turned and saw Abby standing in the doorway of her room. “Sara wants to talk to you. She always asks you if we’re right about something.”

  Abby ignored her and forced herself to think of Sara. She deserved a good time without worrying about them. “Don’t worry about Mack, Sara; Carrie shouldn’t have told you. He’s not a problem; we’re fine.” Make Sara proud of you, she ordered herself. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yes,” Sara said.

  “Where are you?”

  “In a taxi, going to dinner. Abby, didn’t Mack say anything at all about why he was there?”

  “I didn’t see him. Carrie said he ran right past her and up to his room without talking, and looked like he was in a horrible mood. Where are you going to dinner? Is it elegant?”

  “I don’t know. It’s called Gramercy Tavern.”

  “He’s taking you to a tavern?”

  Sara laughed. “I’m told it’s a fine one. We’ll all go together someday. Are any of you worried about Mack?”

  “No, I told you. We’re fine. Is Reuben okay?”

  Sara looked at him; they smiled and their hands touched. “He’s fine,” she said.

  “You sound happy. Are you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Really?” Abby took another breath. “Good,” she said emphatically. “What are you wearing?”

  “Black pantsuit, pink silk blouse, the one you’ve borrowed a couple of times. Abby, where is Mack now?”

  “I told you: in his room, probably sulking about something, and he’ll probably go out later, and we won’t even see him. You know he does that; you know he gets these moods. Sara, we’re fine; don’t worry about us. Nothing’s any different; everything’s normal.”

  Sara nodded to herself. Why wouldn’t it be? What was she worried about? “Okay, sweetheart, call me any time you want to talk. Let me talk to Doug and Carrie, please.” She listened for signs of worry in their voices as they chattered about their day, but heard none. And when the taxi stopped at the restaurant, she finally said goo
d-bye.

  The inner room of Gramercy Tavern looked as old as New York, with roughly textured ceiling beams almost black with age, heavy draperies falling in deep folds, and tables and chairs that were dark, gleaming, solid. The lighting was low, the tables spaced apart, and flickering candles illuminated diners in small circles of privacy. Sara smiled at Reuben as they sat down. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  It was half past ten, and the restaurant had settled into the languorous murmuring of leisurely diners who would order another bottle of wine and let pauses in their conversations lengthen rather than end a pleasant evening. The hard edges of the day had softened, and the waiters, no longer quite as brisk as earlier, seemed to glide from table to table. Sara and Reuben were aware of it all as background: a warm and inviting place to be private.

  When their waiter brought the wine list, Reuben asked, “What shall we choose to begin?”

  “White Bordeaux.”

  “Excellent choice. And red with dinner.” He ordered both, and they turned again to each other. “Is there anything you want to ask me? I haven’t given you much chance; I’ve done almost all the talking.”

  In fact, he had talked for over three hours. But that had been in the late afternoon. Before that, he had been in a meeting that began soon after they arrived, leaving Sara free to wander through Greenwich Village. She knew little of New York; her one year of medical school had been so absorbing she rarely left the neighborhood around Columbia University, and even then had gone no farther south than Lincoln Center.

  Now she explored the angled streets of the Village, a mix of scruffy and polished, harkening to the past and soaring with new ideas, self-satisfied, modest, and exuding a kind of wayward charm. There was an enchantment to the rows of houses crammed as tightly together as burghers gossiping about city scandals, and the enchantment was unexpectedly deepened as the day turned overcast. Clouds moved in, white and pale gray, hanging low and darkening the streets until the antique street lamps began to glow. The day was still warm, and Sara, daring the rain to start, would not be forced into hurrying. She turned up and down the streets, happily losing her way, discovering churches, art galleries, parks, a cemetery, whimsical boutiques and sleek outlets of national chains, the high-rise buildings of New York University. In a craft shop she found a carving set for Doug with templates of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty, and in a bookstore around the corner, she bought a collection of stories about Ellis Island for Carrie and, for Abby, biographies of New York actresses. Later, she stopped for salad and espresso at a small café, and walked again, letting her thoughts drift.

  She was keyed up but oddly light, with a spring to her step. Because I’m alone, she thought, a tourist in New York with no children waiting at home, no dinner to make or homework to check, no lunches to fix for tomorrow, no work from the office to finish.

  But there was more to it than that. She felt suddenly untethered from all the expectations and acceptances that had defined her life until now. The old definitions no longer seemed immutable. Today my life will change.

  (That it could remain the same, that she could go back to Chicago and settle into the same routine and expectations as before, with nothing on the horizon to hint at something new, she considered briefly and rejected; it did not bear contemplation.)

  After today, nothing would be the same; this was a day of decisions. The thought buoyed her through the timeless neighborhoods and cast a glow on shop windows and the intently focused faces of New Yorkers hurtling through their streets. She felt she was one of them, expansive and hopeful, with the same thought she had had on the plane flying in: Reuben would not have brought her here unless it was a time for change. Today my life will change.

  Reuben was waiting for her when she found her way back to his apartment in the late afternoon, just as rain began to fall. When she had left her luggage there earlier, before beginning her walk, she had only glanced at the rooms, startled by the differences between them and the home he had created in Chicago. On her return, once again she could not believe this was Reuben’s home. In Chicago, he had filled his stately rooms with deep furniture, a grand piano, antique rugs in muted shades of blue, rose, sage, and chestnut, paintings of Milton Glazer and lithographs of Picasso that bridged rather than lurched from one century to the next. But here, in a New York loft near Sheridan Square, with a spiral staircase leading to a second floor Sara had not yet seen, he had, with harsh finality, slammed the door on the past.

  On the lower floor, high-ceilinged and spacious, he had defined separate rooms with fig and citrus trees and high bookshelves open to both sides. French doors and tall, narrow windows, kept bare, looked over a broad terrace; earlier she had seen the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, but now all she saw was the rain, a downpour that blew across the windows and dimmed the rooms to a somber palette of white walls, pale ash bookshelves, polished hickory floors, an unused fireplace, and angular couches and armchairs in white, black, and brown. The only color came from a few Indian and Turkish rugs, and, along a gallery stretching to left and right of the front door, enormous, slashing paintings by Franz Kline, Antoni Tàpies, and Willem de Kooning. At the far end of the gallery was a dartboard, the bull’s-eye deeply pocked.

  Except for the dartboard, it looked like a hotel, Sara thought. Clean, simple, sleek, and beautiful. Everything matched, everything was in proportion. It was a work of art. It was not a home. She could not imagine curling up with a book anywhere in that living room, or kicking off her shoes and making a cup of tea.

  She remembered the many times Reuben had talked of bringing past and present together in the towns he built: treasuring the best of the past, searching for ways to preserve it. How painful must have been his own past, she thought, for him to so brutally turn his back on it in making a new place to live.

  But then she came to his study. Completely different, it was a small room carved out of a corner of the living room with its two outer walls formed by double-sided bookshelves. Inside the study, the third wall also was lined with shelves, all three walls crammed with books, standing upright, others lying flat on top of them, some barely visible behind propped-up framed lithographs of Toulouse-Lautrec and cartoons signed by Hirschfeld. A desk lamp reflected off a polished walnut desk and a coffee table of the same wood in an angle formed by a couch and chair upholstered in dark green tweed. Those few pieces filled the room.

  Reuben had pushed aside the books on the coffee table to make room for wine bottles and glasses, a bowl of assorted nuts, and a tray of Gruyère crackers. Sara sat at one end of the couch, happy to sit after hours of walking, happy to be in this room.

  In the darkening afternoon, Reuben turned on floor lamps, lit the logs in a small stove in the corner, and filled their wineglasses. He sat in the armchair and began to talk. And, since he knew he should have done it months before, he told Sara everything because he could not be sure what seemingly small detail might later turn out to have been crucial. He told the whole sad, convoluted story of his marriage to Ardis, his own failings as well as hers, beginning with college and ending with Gus’s telephone call Saturday, a few minutes before noon, announcing Ardis’s signature on the financial agreement. “So you can stroll into a happily-ever-after with your terrific lady,” Gus had said, and Reuben told Sara that, too.

  When he finished, it was almost eight o’clock. Rain lashed against the windows, a constant drumbeat that enhanced the warm enclosure of the room.

  “What I want you to understand,” Reuben said, “is that no one forced me to do anything. I was convinced I was in love with Ardis, I knew I wanted to protect her in a world that terrified her. She’d fled the slums where she grew up, and once she found me and needed me I brought her into my life. It wasn’t long before I realized that I’d taken her on as a project and called it a marriage.”

  He paused, but Sara said nothing; she had listened in silence since he began speaking. She kept her eyes on his, loving the sound of his voice in the hushed room, the
way he kept his hands still so as not to distract from his words, the small frown between his eyes as he strove for the right phrase. She loved, it seemed, everything about him, even his revelations, which seemed more a tale of the inconsistencies and yearnings of youth, and then of lonely middle age, than of sins of a cosmic nature.

  “I suppose,” he said ruminatively, “love can flourish in the worst circumstances if one feels like a hero. But I think I’ve always looked for projects: the kinds of assignments that are built around people’s needs. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the easiest way to feel positive about myself, or the quickest way to satisfy an inordinate need to be loved and admired; I do know that I have to be reined in sometimes from trying to solve all the world’s problems, near and far.” He smiled ruefully. “A hero.”

  He poured the last of the wine into their glasses. “I don’t feel that way with you. You’re not a project; you’re a strong woman who’s had to make difficult decisions, and live with them in an admirable way. I know you can make your way in the world, you can make a full and rewarding life without me. I would like to think it could be more rewarding with me, but I know I’m not essential for that.” Once again he waited, but still Sara said nothing. “And you can care for your family without me; you’re wonderful with them now. As much a real mother as anyone could be. I’d like to think that, together, we could give them a life they’d thrive in differently from the one you’re giving them now, but I’m not essential to that, either; they’ll do fine if your family stays as it is now.”

  He sat at the other end of the couch from Sara. “All this is a rather clumsy way of telling you that I love you, deeply and gratefully, and I want to marry you and make a life with you and shield you as much as possible from unhappiness and need, as I hope you would shield me. I don’t believe anymore in one-way streets. Perhaps I never did. What I do know is that I want to give you and your family a good life, and a joyous one.”

  The room was silent. The rain had eased and, faintly, through a small opening in a protected window, came neighborhood sounds that reminded Sara of her neighborhood at home: the whoosh of traffic, a child shouting good-byes to friends, a dog barking, a woman calling someone to dinner. It was all familiar but remote, twelve floors below the room where Sara sat beside Reuben in spheres of lamplight, and felt as if she were drenched in gold. She leaned toward him and laid her hand along his face. “But you are essential. For everything.”