by Stash (v5)
Of course he had wanted Claire to get an abortion. He’d just been through one stunning thunderclap in his life: getting married to the woman. He didn’t need another. They had flown to Las Vegas to gamble, stayed at Bellagio, and burned through a ton of cash because Claire looked so hot sitting at the blackjack table and he kept paying out chips to watch her, even if she was losing. If you counted the number of cocktails consumed on the house, they might have broken even. Between the coke and the cocktails, they stayed pretty shitfaced the entire three days. Claire was the girlfriend who was both gorgeous and liked to party; usually the two didn’t mix, not in Jude’s experience. They mixed so well in this case that he married her at midnight in one of those Vegas chapels, and though he remembered it the next morning and said what a hoot, Claire told him to stop kidding around—she had a headache.
As soon as they got back home, Jude eased back on the drinking and coke and weed. Being out of control wasn’t such a thrill anymore. You do crazy impulsive things, like get married. But while he eased up, Claire pressed the accelerator. It wasn’t fun cleaning up her puke from his car seat or having her pass out while he was having sex with her. He didn’t mind her partying but did she have to be so excessive? Did she have to raise her voice during minor disagreements when they were having dinner out? Did she have to stick her tongue down his throat when kissing him in public places?
When he tried to talk to her about it, she ridiculed him for getting stodgy overnight. “I thought I married a sexy man who liked to have a good time.”
As for Jude, he didn’t know what he’d married.
He focused on managing the restaurant and the niche dealing he did on the side; he selected customers and suppliers carefully, stayed low-key. He’d do a little, sell a little, risk a little, make a little. Enough to build a cushion. It was all about maintaining control. He didn’t keep anything around the house because of Claire, but she would go out on the nights he was working and score something with her friends or even strangers in other bars.
When she told him she was pregnant, Jude said, “We’ll get it taken care of.”
“I think a baby would be nice to hold. They’re really cute.”
“It’s not a doll, it’s a human,” he shot back at her. “We’re not having a goddamn baby.”
“It’s what we need, to bring us closer together,” Claire said.
“What we need is for you to get your habits under control.”
“I will, sweetie, I promise. I won’t put another bad thing in my body—I can’t, I have a little baby growing in there.” She knew she could do it, she just hadn’t been motivated in the past, hadn’t a reason to come clean. Now she did. Now they were going to have a baby.
He actually let himself believe that Claire would stop drinking and smoking and snorting and popping because she was pregnant. Strike that: he didn’t believe it; he hoped the way a dying man hopes for a miracle cure. The miracle they got: Dana wasn’t born with a bent spine or mottled brain. Yes, she had the vein problem with her eye, but at the time it seemed like a tiny birthmark, and one the doctors predicted would fade.
Then for Claire it was on and off the wagon for the next seven years. Jude didn’t buy in to addiction as a disease and instead attributed Claire’s problems to weakness of character. He could control and moderate himself; why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she do one line of coke, one bong hit? He got her into a rehab program after she’d washed down a handful of Fioricet one night with a bottle of tequila while Dana was taking a bath and Jude was at work. Dana had called for her mother to drain the bath and got no response; she discovered Claire on the floor in her room.
Claire insisted she wasn’t trying to kill herself, she just had a terrible headache and didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, so she took something and lost track of how much. But she agreed to a three-month stay at a rehab clinic two hours away in White Plains. One night while there she tried to hang herself with a coat hanger in a maintenance closet left unlocked. That was the trip to the emergency room the night Gwen babysat for Dana. Jude knew by then the clinic was a waste of money and time—Claire was an incurable addict. He was raising a daughter by himself. He privately regretted that Claire’s coat hanger episode hadn’t succeeded, but a month later Claire disappeared from the clinic, managing to escape by getting one of the night orderlies to lead her out a locked back door in exchange for a blow job. She could be anywhere now. She could be dead, hopefully.
They arrived on campus in Canton, an outpost of brick and stone buildings among the lowlands west of the Adirondacks and east of the St. Lawrence Seaway. Parents unloaded gear from cars and trucks and trailers parked in front of the dorms. On a grassy area surrounded by paved walkways, students played Frisbee; others sat on blankets and picnic tables. A conglomerate of music could be heard coming from many windows.
Jude parked near Robert Hall, Dana’s dorm, and they shared unloading duties, shuttling back and forth from dorm to van, climbing to the second floor each time. Her roommate, Jen, had already moved in with her own supply of lamps, books, favorite mementos, and boxes. That left little room for Dana’s stuff, but Jude made trip after trip to the van and piled everything inside the room. Let the girls sort it out from there.
Jen appeared just as they had finished unloading. A round-faced girl from Boston with a wide smile, she sported a nose ring and a New England accent. Dana had been corresponding with her all summer, sharing photos on Facebook, text messages, and phone calls. They greeted each other like longtime friends and Dana introduced Jude.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gates,” Jen said. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for Dana to show up.”
Jude was about to respond but Jen didn’t allow it. She turned to Dana and started telling her about all the great things she’d done in the twenty-four hours since her parents had dropped her off; not once did she stop talking during the entire walk to the dining hall where the university was hosting a dinner for entering freshman and their parents. At any moment, Jude expected Dana to tell her new roommate to close it, but so far his daughter let it flow downstream to her, taking in everything Jen had to say, smiling and nodding in all the right places.
In the dining hall they stood in a buffet line and chose brisket of beef or broiled salmon, with salad, rice, and rolls. They filled their plates and sat at a long table with other students Jen had already met, some of them solo and others with their parents. The tables were set with cloths and cloth napkins for this event. Jude introduced himself to the parents sitting across from him, who had come from Buffalo with their son Cal. The father was a chemical engineer employed by DuPont, the mother a high school teacher, and Jude a restaurant owner. What did Jude think of this meal? A question he always got once someone knew he owned a restaurant. Very nice, he said, especially considering how many people they were serving. The salmon tasted fresh and was still moist. The engineer said that for forty-five grand a year they’d better get fresh fish, although he had chosen the beef. They agreed the campus was beautiful. Jude forgot their names. He kept looking at Dana to see how she fit in. She didn’t talk much, but seemed pleased with the people around her and being part of this new group. There were Jen and Cal and three other students who were without parents. Their conversation jumped from what classes they had registered for to their hometowns to favorite bands and what sports they would play. They didn’t exclude the parents who were sitting at the same table with them; they simply didn’t see these people who were no longer part of their world.
Then it was 7:30 and time for Jude to go. The dorm welcome party began at 8:00.
“You want to walk me out?” he said to Dana.
She turned to Jen. “I’ll meet you back at the room. Wait for me.”
Jude had moved the van to the parking lot after unloading and he walked now holding his daughter’s hand through the courtyard and along the path out to the parking lot behind Robert Hall.
When they reached the van, Jude said, “Do you have enough money?�
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“I still have what you gave me—how could I have spent anything yet? Plus my credit card.”
“Here.” Jude reached into his pocket and handed Dana three one-hundred-dollar bills he’d been planning to give her. “Just some extra spending money.”
She put the bills in her pocket. “Parents’ weekend is only three weeks away. I’ll see you then.”
“Or before,” Jude added. “I’m thinking of coming to Plattsburgh next weekend for the meet. That’s your first one, right?”
“If my knee is okay.”
“Let me know what the trainer says.”
“I have to go. Jen’s waiting.”
“Don’t worry about anything, you’ll be fine.”
“I think you’re the one that’s worried.”
“You’ll meet new friends, you’ll fit in.”
“I’m not as lame as you think I am.”
“I don’t think you’re lame, I think you’re an angel.”
“Maybe a little nervous,” Dana admitted.
“That’s okay, it’s a healthy sign, like before one of your races. A few nerves help keep you on your game.” He hugged and held her for a long minute and she waited for him to let her go. Then, “Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” He opened the van and got the card out of the door pocket. He also picked up his camera from the center console.
“I couldn’t find the perfect one so I got you this.” He handed her the envelope.
That morning, while Dana had gone out for her run, Jude went to the drugstore to pick out a card for his daughter. He had scanned the racks. There were good-bye cards but their messages were final, suggesting the recipient was moving away forever. There were generic “congratulations on your new adventure” cards. Good-luck cards. Have a great trip cards. Finally he found a “we’ll miss you” card. He wasn’t sure what to do about the “We” part of it, finally deciding to make a joke and sign it “Your Dad and Daddy.”
She looked at the envelope. “Do you want me to open it now?”
“No, no—take it with you. But hold still, I want your picture.”
She cocked her head and smiled as if she were used to cameramen following her around. It was strange she could be so self-conscious about the flaw in her face yet so photogenic. He snapped the photo and viewed it in the camera’s window, showing it to her.
She shrugged.
He hugged her again and stroked her hair, which still maintained a little girl’s feathery texture. He’d stroked that hair ten thousand times or more over these years and he wanted to stand here and stroke it ten thousand more. Then she was walking back and he was sitting behind the wheel of the van watching until she disappeared into the dorm. In whatever ways Jude had fallen short as a father, the results were tallied and already in, and not much could be done about it now. An assault of loneliness and regret struck him on all sides and he thought he might cry but didn’t, and twenty minutes later he was drumming his steering wheel to Neil Young’s “Rockin’ in the Free World,” driving fast, his attention turned to the next order of business.
The Man Who Died
Gwen woke in the morning when the kids climbed on the bed. Nate tunneled under the blankets to get next to her, Nora wedged between her and Brian. Gwen hummed something and rolled over trying to find sleep again.
Brian took them downstairs. A few minutes later he came back with a cup of coffee and the newspaper and this time she sat up.
“How do you feel?”
Her eyebrow tugged along the stitch line but the rest of her face felt fine, not even tender to the touch.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“You’re a knockout.”
“You mean I look like I got knocked out?”
He smiled.
“You don’t know how sick I was when you called me from the hospital,” Brian said. “I thought you were dying, I thought … how much I love and need you, how you and the kids are everything to me.”
“I feel the same way.” Gwen wished she could go back to yesterday, a rushed morning with Brian getting ready for work and the kids for camp and Gwen finishing her list of errands, all of them excited about their long weekend getaway. Brian deserved it, even if she didn’t.
“Daddy, the pan is smoking,” Nora called up the stairs.
Brian kissed her and went back down to finish making breakfast for the kids. Gwen turned to the newspaper. A story about a murder-suicide rampage at an HMO in White Plains dominated the front section—the gun work performed by an irate employee passed over for a promotion that was given to an attractive woman, who was suspected by coworkers of having a “personal relationship” with the boss. Now the attractive woman, the boss, and the disgruntled employee all were dead.
The local section was filled with fun ideas to make the most of what’s left of summer, plus safety tips for grilling and two potato salad recipes. She scanned the paper slowly, drinking her coffee, afraid to see a story about the accident. She had gotten through to the last page when she saw a small headline in the far right column, near the bottom of the page, “Niskayuna Man Dies in Accident.”
James Anderson, 82, of Niskayuna, died from injuries suffered in an automobile accident when his car struck another vehicle on Route 157 near Thacher Park and plunged down a ravine. The driver of the other vehicle, Gwen Raine, 37, of Morrissey, was treated for minor injuries at St. Mary’s Hospital and released. Police are investigating the cause of the accident.
Gwen held her breath and tried to swallow, but a fist of pain clogged her throat and chest: someone had been killed in the accident. An eighty-two-year-old man was dead after colliding with her car. If she’d been a fraction of a second quicker to react—able to swerve faster or brake or speed up—could she have avoided the collision altogether? Was there something she could have done? She had been looking ahead, steering through the curve, and then the car was right there, across the line, in her face.
And now a man was dead. James Anderson. Where had he been going? Did he leave behind a wife? Were there grandchildren who had lost their grandpa?
She hunched over the paper and flipped to the obits section. His was the first name listed.
Anderson—James R. of Niskayuna, died August 26 at the age of 82. Beloved husband of the late Ruth Walsh Anderson, devoted father of Walter J. Anderson and Sheila R. Anderson Birch, loving grandfather to Tyler, Lily, Connor, and Michael. Brother to the late Richard W. Anderson. U.S. Navy veteran of World War II, retired professor of psychology from Union College, longtime community member, and activist. Also survived by several nieces and nephews. Service and interment on Monday, August 29, 10:00 A.M., Niskayuna Rural Cemetery. Contributions can be made to the National Alzheimer’s Association.
She looked up and Nora was at the bedroom door.
“I didn’t hear you come up, sweetie. Did you have breakfast?”
“What are you reading, Mommy?”
“The newspaper.”
“What about?”
“A man who died.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then how come you’re crying?”
“Well, it’s sad when someone dies.”
“How did he die?”
“He was very old.”
“Can I see?”
Gwen pointed to the obituary in the paper. Nora read out loud, holding the page a few inches in front of her face. “What does inter … inter … What’s that word?”
“Interment. It means burial. He’s going to be buried in a cemetery.”
Nora got under the blankets with Gwen. “I’ll bet you had pancakes. You smell like maple syrup.”
“Yep. Are we going up to the lake today?”
“Would you like to?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. We all do. I have a few things to take care of first this morning, and maybe we can leave this afternoon.”
“Daddy said we might not be able to go.”
“He did? Daddy and I wi
ll talk about it.”
Nora peered at Gwen’s stitches.
“Do those hurt, Mommy?”
“No, not really. It hurt a little bit when I got them but not now.”
“Did it feel like getting a shot?”
“It was just little pricks.”
“Can I touch them?”
“Sure, if you’re careful. Just use one finger.”
Nora slowly moved her index finger to Gwen’s eyebrow and hovered there, trembling a little, then barely touched the thread of the stitches. Her hesitant gesture was heartbreaking. Gwen’s eyes filled with tears again.
“Did that hurt?” Nora asked, pulling her finger away.
“No, that was fine,” Gwen said, holding Nora’s hand in hers.
They were quiet for a minute, then Nora asked, “Can we go in Daddy’s car?”
“I think we have to, until the van gets fixed.”
“It doesn’t have any cup holders in the back.”
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Gwen reassured her.
Nora jumped up from the bed and ran downstairs, calling, “Nate, Nate, we’re going—Mommy said we’re going!”
Wait, I didn’t say that. Not for sure. A man has died.
Brian came upstairs.
“I was just getting up,” Gwen said, rising out of bed. “Brian, did you know about James Anderson, the other driver?”
“I heard it from Roger, last night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“By the time I got a chance you were asleep.”
Gwen shook her head. “It’s so sad. I feel sick over it.”
“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Brian reassured her. “Roger told me the investigators already determined the other driver crossed the line.” He put his arms around her. “There’s nothing you could have done.”
“How do I know that? What if there was?”
“It’s okay,” he whispered. He held her tighter.
She let go of Brian. “I feel terrible,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower.” The spray of water would drown her thoughts, the soap would smell sweet.
