by Brent, Cora
He seemed interested. “You know of one?”
“Yes. I’m looking to sublet my apartment. Right away. It’s fully furnished.”
Daryl listened as I explained the details. I told him he could come by when he took lunch and give the place the look. And if he liked it he could have the keys right then and there.
“Angela,” he asked as I began to walk away. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” I answered and headed to Cranston’s office.
Michael Cranston, CEO, listened to my apology for the lack of notice and waved a plump hand. “You’ve been a good employee, Angela, though this abruptness has me curious. You must have a good reason.”
My hands were in my lap. “I do,” I said quietly.
His carefully plucked eyebrows rose. “May I inquire as to the nature of said reason?”
I looked him in the eye. “You have your Hamlet, and apparently I have mine.”
Cranston smiled. “I see.” And he shook my hand and wished me well.
Lanie was flabbergasted. “Angela,” she said gently, “are you sure?”
“Well no,” I sniffed. “I’m not sure about him or about me or much of anything. I just know that I need to go.”
She hugged me. “Call me.”
“I will. I promise.”
Daryl marveled over the apartment and said he could move in this weekend. I handed him a copy of the keys and said we could finish the paperwork long distance.
“So you’re leaving today?” He asked curiously.
“Today,” I confirmed.
He was thoughtful. “Is it a man?”
“Isn’t it always?”
Daryl smiled, looking around. “Well, he must be something.”
“Yes,” I said. “He is that.”
Daryl gave me a brief, awkward hug. “Take care of yourself, Angela.”
“I will. And Daryl? In winter the cold seeps through this old place like a bitch. Invest in some wool.”
I packed carelessly, filling three suitcases and two garbage bags, all of which I stuffed in my car. I had my books, personal mementos, and clothes which I reflected wryly wouldn’t fit me for much longer. I laid Marco’s leather jacket carefully across the backseat.
I felt remarkably calm as I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mom. I’m coming home. Not for a few days. For good. I’m sorry. I’ll explain more when I get there tonight.”
My poor mother scarcely had time to register a sputtering reaction before I ended the call. I took one last look around my apartment. It was a lovely little corner of the world and I had loved living here. I had loved living in Boston. And two months ago I would have laughed uproariously at the idea of returning to my small hometown. I didn’t know if Marco and I would make it or if he even wanted to try. But my life was about to change in ways I couldn’t yet understand and I needed to be home. I wanted to be home. And for better or for worse I would never blame this decision on the child who grew inside of me.
I felt a fierce surge of protective love as my hand unwittingly traveled over my belly. Then I picked up my purse and closed the apartment door behind me, locking it.
My car crawled through the snarl of the city’s early evening traffic. By the time I reached the edge of Cross Point Village it was nearly dark. I drove past the cannon and the town hall and saw my father’s truck parked in front of the store but didn’t stop. Out of the corner of my eye I realized Maple Street housed the usual crowd of bikes and buzzed patrons, but I avoided looking too closely. I wasn’t ready to see him yet.
I let the car roll to a stop in front of 16 Polaris Lane, under the half defeated maple tree. There was no one around. My head bent to the steering wheel and I let out a shuddering sigh.
She must have been waiting for me to pull up because not a moment passed before there was a knock at the window. I opened the door and let her lead me back to the house as if I were a sobbing child who only needed a band aid.
Grace poured me a cup of tea and waited while I caught my breath.
“So can I have my old room again?” I finally asked.
She smiled at me forlornly. “He went to see you.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I shrugged.
“What does that mean, Angela?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I can’t explain it to myself so I’m afraid I won’t be able to explain it to you.”
“I heard him roar onto the street at about midnight. I figured it didn’t go well.”
“Nope. It did not go well. Where’s Dad?”
“Still at the store. I haven’t told him yet. Figured I’d give you a chance to get through the door first.”
“He won’t be pleased.”
She was thinking. “Maybe.” Her eyes searched my face and she frowned. “What did you tell Marco?”
I looked at her, choosing my words with care. “I told him what I needed to tell him.”
“You’re pregnant.”
I closed my eyes. I had always credited my father with greater insight but in certain matters my mother was far more shrewd.
“I am. Knocked the hell up. With child. Bun in the goddamn oven.” I giggled crazily.
She put a firm hand on my arm, quieting me. “What did he say?”
I tried to remember what Marco had said. “Absolutely nothing.”
Her frown deepened. No doubt she expected it go differently. That there would be flowers and music, that this news meant Marco and I would stand up in front of friends and family and live happily ever after.
I stood up. “Look, I’ve got a lot of crap in my car but I think before I can sit down again I need to talk to him.”
She nodded. “I’m sure he’s at The Cave.”
“I’m sure he is.”
I started to head out the door when she called me.
“Angela, sweetheart?”
I turned around.
“The answer is yes, you can have your room. You can always come back.”
I skirted Main Street and parked over by the high school. I’d felt terribly tired sitting at my mother’s table but adrenaline was coursing through me now. I recalled the cold look in Marco’s eyes as we’d stared each other down last night and I shook inside.
I didn’t pass anyone I knew on the short walk to Maple Street. A handful of leather-clad toughs lounged outside of Haven, another bar. They stopped talking and watched me quietly as I passed and before I lowered my head I saw the word ‘Warriors’ on one of their jackets.
Thursday night wasn’t the busiest of the week but it was busy enough. I paused outside the entrance to The Cave, my pulse racing. I didn’t see Marco. A few guys I recognized from high school antiquity sat at the bar, accepting shot glasses from a laughing Shannon Cortez.
Walking through the bar in plain sight and answering a pack of questions was distinctly unappealing. Perhaps I could go through the back door and catch Marco there. I still had no idea what I would say to him. Maybe it would be easy. Maybe we would fall into each other’s arms and kiss and then have a fade to black happily ever after. Or maybe he would give me that same dead-eyed expression he had the night before. Right after I’d told him how repulsive an idea it was to expect me to be with him, to bear his child. He might remember only that. And then turn coldly away for good.
Before I rounded the building I saw Tom Hennessy in his Cross Point Village police uniform. He was standing next to a car on the corner of Main and Maple, frowning as he scrawled out a ticket. Surprise registered in his face at the sight of me and he waved hesitantly. Not for the first time I wondered what the word around town was over me and Marco.
Whatever the gossip was, it was about to get a lot more interesting. A newly familiar wave of nausea came over me and I bent forward, closing my eyes.
“Hey, Angie. You sick?”
I looked up into the sallow face of Keith French, Krista’s husband.
“I’m fine, Keith. Just out for a walk. How are you?” I noted t
he way he swayed slightly on his feet and I backed up a few inches.
“I’m good.”
“Krista around?”
“Home with the kids. For now. I just stepped out to get some ice cream.” He held up a wrinkled, leaking brown bag as evidence, then scowled at it with drunken confusion.
“Does whiskey go well with ice cream, Keith?”
Keith lowered the bag. Even in his drunken state he didn’t appreciated my sarcastic question. His eyes narrowed and I could tell he was going to say something mean.
“So, Angie, what the hell you doing back in town so soon?” He advanced on me as I backed unsteadily into the brick wall.
“None of your damn business.”
Keith chuckled, wagging a finger. “Oh, I can guess. Everyone can.” He moved close enough for me to get a good whiff of the booze and sweat rolling off him. “Don’t you know he’s fucked over half the females in town? And I hear he’s finally gotten to lock-kneed Angie Durant.” Keith laughed out loud. “He always said that someday he would.”
I crossed my arms. “Go home to your goddamn wife and worry about your own shit.”
“Oh, but he’s fucked her too. Didn’t you know that?”
“Keith, that was a long time ago.”
“It’s never a long time ago, not here.”
He moved forward aggressively, as if he were about to force a kiss. I tried to get away, shoving him hard. I don’t believe he meant to hit me. But he was drunk enough to be shaky already. My shove threw him completely off balance and his forearm slammed into the side of my head. It caught me in a bad place across my ear and I heard nothing but an awful’;l ringing as I went down.
“Oh, shit Angie, I’m-“
And then Keith wasn’t able to speak anymore. Marco grabbed him, hurling him against the wall as if he were a rag doll. Keith struggled to get his feet underneath him as he lay face down on the pavement, groaning.
“Get up, you motherfucker,” Marco said in a lethal, unrecognizable voice.
I gritted my teeth, summoning every ounce of strength. “NO!” I screamed, leaping between them.
Marco blinked at me, his clenched fists slowly relaxing as sick realization dawned on his face. He glanced over at Keith, who was coughing blood into the dirty asphalt. I put a hand on Marco’s chest, silently begging him to stand down, although I didn’t need to. He already understood what might happen.
A few curious observers had gathered, including Tom Hennessy. I stared at his uniform fearfully as he peered down at Keith with disgust.
“You always were a douchebag, French.”
Tom glanced at Marco. “Look, I saw what he did to Angie.” He leaned closer, whispering. “And I’ll cover this the best I can, all right?” Tom patted his friend on the arm, motioning to me. “Get her out of here.”
Shannon had emerged from the bar, twisting a towel in her hands. Her eyes were wide. “You okay?” she asked me.
I rubbed my head. “I think so.”
“Shannon,” said Marco in a thick voice, “sorry to do this to you again, but can you handle things for a little while?”
“Of course.” Shannon gave me a weak smile. “Take care of her, Marco.”
I clutched at his arm as we stumbled the two blocks to where my car was parked. He did not say a word.
“Marco, I don’t think I can drive.” I handed him the keys.
I climbed into the passenger seat as Marco sat behind the steering wheel.
“Fuck,” he finally said in a choked voice.
I felt the bristling tension in his arm when I touched him. He didn’t push me away, but didn’t respond either.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
He rolled down the window, peering darkly into the night. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“But that’s not what I meant.” I swallowed and spoke haltingly. “Marco, I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry that I told you about the baby in the way that I did. I’m sorry that last month I left without really saying goodbye, without trying…” My voice trailed off.
“What else?” He asked without looking at me.
“I didn’t mean it.”
He ran a hand over his chin and faced me with an arch look. “But you were right. I’m nobody’s fucking Prince Charming. I’m a violent, troubled ex-convict who runs a crappy bar and has more notches in his belt than there are stars in the fucking sky.” He shook his head. “At least that’s what you think, isn’t it?”
I clasped my hands in my lap. “So what do you think of me? That I’m a cold-hearted brat who looks down at everyone I’ve ever known with smug conceit?”
“No, Angela. That’s not what I think of you. That’s what you think of you.”
“What the hell does that even mean? Marco, do you have any idea what I’ve given up in the past 24 hours?”
That got his attention. “Now it’s my turn to ask what the hell you mean.”
I bit my lip. “I quit my job. Leased out my apartment. I stuffed all my worldly shit into my car and came back here.”
“Ah, ‘here’. You say that like it’s the bowels of hell.” He sighed. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”
“No, you didn’t. And I’m not asking you for any promises.”
He reached for my hand. “Why not?”
I began to feel dangerously close to crying. “Because I don’t believe you can follow through with them.”
He took his hand away. “Touche, darling,” he whispered, letting me know how I’d wounded him.
“So can you?”
“Why don’t you ask me a different question?”
“Like what?”
“Like whether I’ve gone all Banger Bendetti in your absence.”
“Have you?”
“No!” he shouted. “I haven’t fucked around with anyone else since you took off. Happy now?”
“No,” I answered miserably.
“Angela,” Marco said in a strangled voice, rubbing his eyes. “You want to know something?”
I wished he would reach for me again. “I want to know everything.”
He took a deep breath and I realized he was as close to sobbing as I was. “That guy I fucked up in Arizona? The one who put me away? He was a friend of mine. We roomed together in a crappy apartment for a time. He used to beat the shit out of his girlfriend. She would come over full of bruises and broken limbs and I would pretend I didn’t see them. But then one day I happened to come home as he had her on the floor, pounding her with a broom handle while she screamed and pleaded. I lost it, Angela. It was my mother and father all over again. You must have heard some of the stories, all true. Best day of my mother’s life was when that bastard dropped dead. Anyway, by the time I realized what I’d done he was a bloody pulp and his girlfriend was clutching at me, shrieking at me to stop. Lucky I didn’t kill him. And I would have been put away for a lot longer if she hadn’t testified on my behalf.”
I didn’t say anything. I tried to imagine Marco incarcerated. Three years. While I was graduating from college, moving to Boston, living a dreamy carefree life he had been locked up in some hellish desert prison. A deeper pain than I had ever known expanded in my chest.
Marco was watching me. “You can’t pick and choose what parts you want and what parts you don’t, Angela. I’m sorry. That’s the guy I am. And all those things I know damn well you remember about me from the past? That’s who I am too. And I also know none of it is good enough for you, no matter how much I want you.” His voice dropped an octave. “No matter how much I love you.” He reached over and placed a hand across my stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Then he left. I didn’t watch him go this time. I didn’t wonder if he would turn around once more. I started the car and drove back to Polaris Lane. And it wasn’t until I turned the corner of my street that I realized one thing: I could have gone after him.
I could have told him what was in my heart, that he was all I thought about, all I needed. That I was wrong about him
and about me and about the town I grudgingly treasured.
“How much I love you.”
I could have said it back to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Grace was sitting on the couch thumbing through a magazine when I walked through the front door, pulling two suitcases after me.
“New issue of Good Housekeeping?”
“What happened?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs. He knows you’re here.”
“Does he know everything?”
“He knows you’ve come home. And that you’re pregnant.”
“That’s everything. Great.” I struggled to drag both suitcases to my room. My mother silently took one out of my hand and followed me.
I sat gingerly on the edge of my bed. The ‘Class of ‘82’ banner stared back at me.
“Damn you,” I whispered.
“What?” Grace asked, rolling the suitcase next to my dresser.
“Nothing, Mom.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you and Daddy have always enjoyed perfection,” I said, flopping onto my pillow, quite aware my voice had taken on a petulant, withering quality. “You don’t understand what it’s like for the rest of us, grabbing for the crumbs.”
“Don’t I?” my mother said softly, an ominous note in her voice.
Something about her tone made me sit up. I stared at my mother as she chewed on a fingernail and looked off into the distance, not toward the small window on the opposite side of the room, but into the past.
Grace Franco Durant sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She had stopped covering the gray last winter and what was left of the artificial color was slowly disappearing. Yet, as she sat down and gazed at her grown, unhappy daughter she looked young, vulnerable.
“Mom?” I said.
Her brown eyes fixed on me clearly. “Life isn’t orderly, Angela. Things happen that you don’t expect. And sometimes things don’t happen that you do expect. Your father and I had been married for twelve years. It was always the plan, you see. Get married, get a house, start a family. But in that last…” he voice trailed off and she shook her head. “We watched a decade go by. It seemed a baby was born here every other minute. Our friends had three, four and sometimes even more children by 1960 and here we sat, your father and I, in an empty house, watching the carriages roll past.” She smiled at me sadly. “I always knew I was meant to be a mother but I despaired. I couldn’t take one more day of smiling politely at the news of yet another birth. And so, the week before Christmas, I packed a bag and took the bus to Albany. And from there, New York City.”
