Nat squeezed his daughter hard, held her away, touched her face, outlining her cheeks and nose, around her mouth. "I can see you, you know, very clearly—in my imagination. It’s not quite the same as seeing you with my eyes, but it’s pretty good. Because you described them to me, I can imagine your dress and the colors and what you’ll look like in it. You’re beautiful. You look like your mother—" From beside Nat came the harsh, deliberate squeal of wooden chair legs scarring linoleum, the crash of the same chair falling backward to the floor, the clatter of flatware and Corel dishes following it.
"Zach?" Nat asked. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"Fine," Zach snapped, "just fine, except this is all bull and I hate it and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want any of you here anymore." He kicked his silverware aside, pushed around the table to snatch his jacket off its peg beside the basement door. "I’m goin’ out to shoot baskets."
"Zach, it’s dark, you’ve been sick—"
"So I’ll turn on the stinkin’ lights, okay, Colonel? Not that you have anything to say about it anyway, ’coz you’re not my mother and you never will be so stop tryin’ to take her place and just keep the hell away from me."
"Zach." Nat’s voice was puzzled. Cool and firm. "You don’t talk to anyone like that, but especially not Helen. Come back here and apologize."
"Apologize for me, Dad,"Zach snapped. "Same way I’m always apologizing for you."
The window in the door rattled behind him with the slam.
"Zach!" Nat’s chair hit the floor with the force of his rising. "Toby, cane," he commanded sharply.
Hands out, he felt his way around the table, headed after his son.
"Nat, don’t." Helen rose with him, hoisting Jane out of her lap and depositing her on the floor.
"Helen, he can’t do this. I can’t let him."
"Nat, he hurts, he’s got to work it out."
"You think I don’t know that, Helen? You think I don’t know how he feels? His mother abandoned me once, too, remember?"
A sock in the jaw would have hurt less. Especially after what she’d shared—done—with him this afternoon in the laundry room.
Helen drew herself up, worked her jaw metaphorically back into place. She had to believe he didn’t mean it the way he said it. She would not let this affect her. She was tougher, she told herself, than a comment made in the heat of a moment. She was tougher than anything any mere man had ever done or said to her in her life.
"Nat," she said, keeping her voice even, aware of the fearful intensity with which Max, Libby, Cara and Jane watched them. "Whatever this is about, he needs space. You have to allow him time."
Nat’s jaw squared, face hardened. He took the collapsed cane Toby nudged into his hand, unfolded it and snapped it together. "Don’t," he suggested softly, "try to tell me how to handle my son."
The window in the door rattled almost as hard when he slammed out as it had for Zach.
* * *
Angry voices sounded in the driveway, the slap–slap on concrete of a basketball in need of air, the bang and rattle of a well–used backboard every time the ball hit it.
Reaching for something normal, Helen settled Zach’s far too wary siblings in front of a Disney movie in the playroom and retreated to the sun porch off her bedroom to stand in the dark, looking down on Nat and his son. There wasn’t a lot to see. Zach played basketball by himself, ignoring Nat, and Nat talked himself blue, then simply stood silent, listening to the sounds defiance made in a city driveway: bonk–bonk–bonk, slap, bang, rattle, the occasional loud crash when the ball hit the aluminum garage door. Not much to communicate with there.
Thoughtfully Helen left the porch, went to rummage in Nat’s side of the master closet. She thought she’d seen one of the kids bring in… Ah! There it was, Nat’s athletic bag. She wrinkled her nose at the contents—two smelly, cutoff sweatshirts, sweat being the key word there; a pair of worn, formerly white high–top basketball shoes; a clean jock strap without the cup; a pair of University of Michigan gym shorts of indeterminate age; and what she was looking for: one Visually Impaired Association Air Attack audible basketball and a goal locator—sans battery, of course.
Carrying shoes, ball and locator, she headed for the driveway, stopping long enough in the playroom to let Cara and Libby know where she’d be. Then she took the long way to the driveway, stopping in the kitchen to find a nine–volt battery and detouring through the basement to collect the tall stepladder before she went outside.
The silence of a father and son at odds with each other was loud even by city standards—and they were barely a block and a half around the corner from one of three local hospitals and its emergency room. Ignoring Nat and Zach both, Helen dropped the ladder and the ball, oofed Nat’s shoes into his midriff without announcing herself first, intercepted Zach’s ball out from under his nose in mid–dribble and tossed it into the bushes along the side of the house.
"That will be enough of this," she announced to the world in general.
Then, before the two sap–skulled, dumfounded males of her household could react, she set up the ladder, climbed up and attached the goal locator to the basket rim, climbed down and set the ladder carefully aside. Picked up Nat’s audible basketball, backed up, bounced the jingling thing twice and swished a three pointer from the foot of the driveway. The goal locator did its job to perfection, but just to make sure, Helen took the ball in for a lay–up, then dribbled it back down the driveway, feinted around Zach and sank a hook shot—catching nothing but net, thank you very much.
No one had ever had the nerve to say of her that she was content to leave well enough alone. Nor that she didn’t enjoy showing off from time to time—as long as it was for a good cause. Nat might not be able to see what she was capable of, but Zach could.
Satisfied, she slapped the ball into Nat’s chest as she had his shoes, repossessed the ladder and Zach’s ball, and headed for the house.
"Play nice, boys," she suggested gently from the steps.
Not even the knob rattled when she shut the door behind her.
* * *
She was back upstairs bathing Jane and supervising Max while he bathed himself when she heard the back door open and slam, open and close, heard the stomp of angry boy feet on the stairs, the quieter tread of his father following. Listened to the father sigh when the angry son slammed yet another door in his face. Caught the faint sound of Nat’s basketball being dropped back into his closet with his shoes.
Remembered the illusions of her childhood, where it seemed that her parents, no matter what the situation, always appeared to have all the answers.
Another good story shot full of the holes of experience.
She felt Nat before she heard him enter the bathroom behind her.
"Helen, I—"
She stood, handed him a towel. "Why don’t you help Max finish up while I pajama Jane. Cara and Libby already showered and brushed their teeth. They’re waiting for their story."
There was no tightness in her voice, no "you supreme jerk," no "we’ll talk about it later," merely the continuation of life, the application of routine, the same bedtime ritual the children had expected from them from the first.
He wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for the consideration or not. Of course, maybe she just didn’t want to get into it in front of the kids. That was the trouble with having the family first and marrying someone you didn’t know second; the rules of war were usually the last ones to be established.
Helen’s, he discovered the minute all the children were tucked in, had to do with a basketball game called "Horse."
"Helen…" He followed her into the bedroom, once again trying to get her attention.
"Save it and put your shoes on, stud," she said crisply, collecting the basketball from where he’d dropped it. "I’ll be in the driveway."
"Pardon?"
"Five minutes," she informed him, "then I spot you two points and start without you."
&n
bsp; Leaving him openmouthed, head canted, listening hard after her, she left.
It took him less than three minutes to follow her.
"Okay, Helen, what’s goin’ on?"
"B–ball. You got your shoes on?"
"Yeah."
"Great." She bounced the ball twice. "Then let’s do it."
Nat puffed out a barely patient breath, felt his way down the back steps. "Do what, Helen? Pretend I’m slow. Spell it out for me."
She crossed to stand in front of him, excruciatingly indulgent. "We play," she explained carefully, "one game, twenty–one points, one–on–one. I’m handicapped by having the lights out and spotting you two points. If I win, you explain what happened over dinner and in the laundry room to me. If I lose, you explain what happened over dinner and in the laundry room to me. Simple."
"Let me get this straight." Nat reached out, found the ball and took it out of her hands. Set it on his hip and draped an arm over it. "You win, I explain myself to you. I win, I explain myself to you. That it?"
"Pretty much."
"And there’s no way you’re going to let me just skip to the explanation and forget the exercise."
"Nope. If you’re well enough to baptize me and the laundry room twice, then do battle with an eleven–year–old, you’re well enough to help me get rid of your excess aggression out here first."
"My excess aggression, not yours?"
"That, too."
"Hmm." Thoughtful, Nat worked his jaw. "How do I know the lights are out and you won’t try to cheat?"
"You don’t. Or you trust me. Or you go next door and ask the judge to ref."
"Hmm." He rolled the ball off his hip and spun it between his palms a couple of times, getting the feel of it before twirling it up to balance on the tip of one finger. "I’m pretty good, you know—All State in high school, scouted by the pros in college, my team finaled in the Gus Macker three–on–three out at Oakland last year. With the lights out and you trying to see through the shadows instead of playing blind… Maybe I ought to spot you six points and give you first outs."
"West Point intramurals," Helen retorted. "Captain of the championship team four years running. Voted army pick–up league MVP last year."
"Oh, right." Nat snorted. "And probably by a bunch of suck–up junior officers and enlisted personnel, too."
"No ranks on the court," Helen said frostily, causing him to grin. "Merit only."
"Anybody ever tell you you’ve got a nasty competitive streak in you?"
"All the time," Helen confirmed.
Nat’s grin broadened. "Show me the court," he suggested.
* * *
If anyone had told Nat that three days after his Thanksgiving wedding he’d be out in his driveway while it snowed going all out to beat his bride at a game of Horse, he’d have told them they were nuts. Even now, while it was happening, he could barely believe it.
It was a hard, fast, physical game, played by street rules with a lot of body contact. After she’d fouled him onto his keester for the second time in five minutes, he quit trying to play any kind of chivalrous game, stole the ball from her and concentrated on playing to win.
The fact that after twenty minutes the score was only eight to six and he was ahead by a scant two points and was breathing a lot harder than she was floored him.
"Maybe we ought to call time," Helen offered kindly. "Let you catch your breath. You have been sick, after all."
Grimly Nat swiped sweat and snowflakes out of his face, pitched the ball to her and stripped off his shirt. "Shut up and take it out."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Helen dribbled the ball slowly, calculating her attack. "You’re starting to sound crabby. This is a friendly game, remember? Better be careful, your temper’ll screw up your judgment."
"Friendly game, my eye." He lunged for the ball, felt Helen dodge around him, heard the ball hit the basket and knew she’d racked up another two. "If this is what you call friendly, I’d hate to see you when you’re not. Where’d you learn to play, anyway?"
"The Point. Played a little in high school, but you know how it was then. Pretty backward as far as women’s sports were concerned, unless I wanted to play tennis, which I didn’t. Found out I’ve got kind of a knack for games men play. Not to mention I discovered that if, as a plebe and a woman to boot, I took the court and mopped the floor with upperclassmen, my credibility went up, not to mention the respect. Got called a lot of names for a while, but the sexual harassment stopped. A few morons questioned my, um, orientation, I guess you might say, but I survived and a lot of them didn’t, and I guess that’s the best revenge."
"Sounds like a tough crowd."
Helen shrugged; Nat could almost hear it in her voice. "Can’t beat it for life prep," she said. "Never have been good at girl stuff, but I never felt like a tomboy, either. Had to learn how to handle the fact that a lot of men still don’t like competing with women. Especially women who can dress and feel like women and still play on their courts and win. And I can."
He stopped short, arrested by something in her voice. "That what this game’s about? You feel you got something to prove to me? Or maybe yourself? I’m not other men, Helen. I believe in letting people—men, women, kids or green things from Mars—do what they’re capable of doing."
"No." Helen paused in front of him, mopped her face on her forearm. "Not to you. At least…" She hesitated. "Not anymore. I think this is just blowing off steam because I need to. Spending time with you because I want to. Maybe letting you see a side of me some people don’t like. And maybe because I think you—we—need to understand that the same rules that apply out here apply in the house."
"I play fair with you, you’ll play fair with me?"
"Basically."
"But out here we’re one–on–one," Nat said quietly. "Opponents. In there we’re on the same side."
"We weren’t tonight and it scared the kids. They’ve been through a lot, Nat. They need to know they can count on us."
"They also need to understand we’re not always going to agree about everything, Helen, and that’s okay."
"Is it, Nat? I don’t even know that, so how can they?"
Nat turned to her, face carefully blank. "You don’t even know what?"
"You." Passionate. "What you expect from me."
"Helen, I don’t…" He tried to catch her arm, but she yanked away, spun to face him.
"I don’t know that disagreeing with you is okay, I don’t know what your temper’s like, I don’t know how easy it might be to push you too far, I don’t know where all your buttons are and I’m not even sure where all mine are anymore."
She took his hands, laced her fingers through his, linking them physically the way she’d begun to need them to be linked emotionally. "They’re lookin’ to us for their cues, Nat. They need us to be like an old married couple that’s been together for years, need us to know where we stand with each other all the time, what we expect from them and ourselves, and I don’t, Nat. I don’t."
"Helen, I—"
"You may take yourself and this entire situation for granted, but where you’re concerned, I can’t, because where you’re concerned…" She touched his hand, his cheek in a gesture of futility.
"When it comes to you," she finished softly, "I’m not even sure where I stand with me."
Chapter Nine
How did that old song go? You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain…
Well, his nerves were pretty jangled, all right, and his brain felt like a pair of broken maracas. Had been all day, all week, the last month, most of his life since he’d first run into Helen.
She was supposed to be the one who understood what was happening to them. She was the one with the serenity in her genes, housed within her body, where she’d taken him in without question, without an ounce of caution or prevention.
Where she’d made him feel whole within himself for the first time in years, then left him wary, afraid that where he’d gone—where he’d taken her�
��this afternoon from instinct would be withdrawn from him—from them—again because he didn’t know where he stood here, either.
With her or with himself. And if she wasn’t sure in turn…
He swallowed the taste of something that disagreed with his stomach. All he knew right now was that there was a hollow place inside him that simply having his kids back didn’t fill the way he’d assumed it would. A space that needed not only a woman’s touch, but required this woman’s touch.
But whether that vacancy merely needed redecorating so she could rent it, or if it was in search of a permanent resident, he didn’t know.
Didn’t want to know at the moment, truth be told.
"I mean…" She squeezed his hands hard, her voice was wistful. "Nat, you gotta tell me. What am I gonna do about you? I want to know, I need to know… Do I kiss you hello and goodbye, do I kiss you in front of the children, do I come to you when I need a hug? Can I crawl into your arms, sleep on your side of the bed, expect to snuggle without having sex? Can I relax with you, or do I need to worry whether or not I brushed my teeth three times a day or put on deodorant, instead of paying attention to some kid who’s gotta have this or that for school this morning and forgot to tell me the night before, or if I smell after a game of Horse, or put on makeup when I’d rather not?"
She withdrew her hands, turned away, arms about herself. "Do I talk to you about Zach or talk to him myself and hope that what I tell him isn’t diametrically opposed to what you’d tell him? Do I discipline Cara the same way I do Libby, or do I worry about crossing into your territory and stepping on your toes? I mean, we have to have some consistency here. When I refer to you when I’m talking to them, do I call you Nat, Dad or something else, or do I pretend that it’s okay not to call you anything and hope they’ll come up with something that makes them comfortable even when I’m not? And do you think it really was an omen when Max threw up on the rings?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, confusion plain in her voice. "Is it okay to come to you when I want you so bad that not having you hurts? How do I respond to the kids when they make the comments they’ve been making lately about sex and orgies and the expectations of wedding nights? Do we go back to separate bedrooms and let them wonder where we stand with each other? Do I talk to them about us, or do I pretend not to hear when they’re wondering and hope that ignoring it all is the best solution?
Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Page 13
