“Wrong number, I guess. There wasn’t anybody on the line.”
“Probably the phone company taking a bathroom break,” Paul comments.
What Kate has left unsaid is that since they’ve returned from San Francisco—since October—these hang-up calls have increased in frequency from once or twice a month to almost daily. And they never seem to happen to Paul. She’s chosen to ignore their implications for the sake of harmony, but with Christmas just a week away it’s becoming more and more difficult.
Kate turns to her father and teasingly says, “Daddy? Do you want some coffee?”
“No. You can keep me awake with your sparkling wit, Katie.”
Her smile turns to a slight frown when the phone rings again. “Paul, you get it this time.” She takes the lights from him. “Dad can help me with this.”
As Paul leaves the room, her mother says, “I didn’t know Mike Fitzgerald was coming.”
“Well, I hope he’s coming. We’re still waiting to hear.”
“Is he married yet?”
“No. He’s too busy proving that there are still a lot of fish in the sea.” Kate steps back from the tree to check her work. “Why?”
Just then Paul comes back. “That was Mike. He’ll be here day after tomorrow.”
Kate’s face lights up. “Good!” Walking past Paul, she gives him a peck on the cheek. “This calls for some music.”
A Christmas tape comes on and Kate’s throaty voice fills the room as she sings along with “Winter Wonderland.”
It’s early but her parents have gone to bed, saying they were tired. Kate suspects they want to leave the three friends alone in the den.
She and Mike are working their way through their first bottle of wine, and an endless argument about who was the better writer, Steinbeck (Kate) or Faulkner (Mike). Paul, who had suffered through both in high school, simply sits back drinking his rum and Coke and keeping score. Mike has just pulled ahead with his last point when the telephone rings. Paul raises himself out of the comfortable wing chair. No one notices that he opts to pick it up in the kitchen.
Kate is busy saying, “You can’t possibly compare The Grapes of Wrath to any of Faulkner’s stuff! Steinbeck spoke to a whole nation. If you’re not from the South, Faulkner’s almost unreadable.”
“In your opinion,” Mike answers, holding out his wineglass.
Kate upends the bottle and pours Mike the last of the wine. “I have a right to my opinion.”
“The rules say I do, too.”
“Not when your opinion is wrong.” She grins, standing. “I’ll go get another bottle.”
It surprises her to hear Paul’s voice. It surprises her even more to realize she hadn’t noticed him leave the room.
His tone is annoyed. His voice is low. But she hears his words clearly.
“Look, you can’t keep calling me here.”
Kate stands still.
“God damn it, it’s Christmas! I’ve got family and friends here.”
She has stopped breathing.
“No. You listen. I don’t want you calling me again.”
Kate tries to slow her heartbeat.
“No. I fucking well mean it, Liz. Not now—not ever.” He hangs up.
Stifling a sob, Kate takes a few steps back down the hall. There is nowhere to hide but the bathroom, and she quickly takes refuge there. A few minutes pass before she hears Paul’s footsteps pass the door and go back into the den.
Kate follows him moments later, a fresh bottle in her hand, a smile on her face. Paul excuses himself twenty minutes later. Kate allows him to kiss her good-night. She gives him a five-minute head start, and then tells Mike to keep the wine flowing; that she’ll be right back.
She quietly closes the bedroom door and leans back against it. Paul, wearing only his Jockey shorts, has just gone into his nightly push-up routine.
“Who was on the phone, Paul?”
He doesn’t slow down, answering, “My mom.”
“When did she change her name to Liz?”
That makes him stop mid-push and he slowly gets to his knees.
“Don’t even think about lying to me again, Paul.”
With absolutely no sense of shame, he says, “She’s a fan who got the wrong idea when I said hi to her at a game.”
Kate stares at him in disbelief. “And how did she happen to get our unlisted telephone number?”
Paul’s jaw tightens. He stands, but he has no easy answer for her, and the something inside Kate that wants to be wrong shrivels.
“Let me get this straight, Paul. You gave one of your sluts our phone number, somehow expecting her not to call, and me not to find out?” God, he was so handsome, standing there half-naked. The thought of Paul pounding his hard body into another woman sends a shiver of pain through Kate, and her agony comes out in her words. “You promised me, Paul. You said you’d never do this to me again.”
His eyes, so soft, reflect her anguish.
Pleading with him, she quietly asks, “What am I doing wrong? Just tell me and I’ll fix it. I want you to love me again.”
“Kate, I do love you. It’s just … I get lonely on the road.”
“Then why won’t you let me go with you? We can afford it! Why?” Her voice hardens. “Answer me, damn it!”
But he continues gazing at her.
Enraged, she says, “Is it because I’d cramp your style?” A sudden realization hits her. “God, Paul! How many have there been?” Her stomach convulses. Bile rises in her throat and she has to stop herself from being sick. “You—are—disgusting.”
“Kate, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know sorry yet.” Her voice lowers to a hiss. “While my parents are here you can sleep in this room, but not in our bed. After they leave, you can move into the guest room. I’ll act like nothing’s wrong. Don’t take that to mean all’s well. By the end of this winter you’ll wish you’d kept your pants zipped, ’cause the only time you’ll get to take your cock out is to piss.”
Shocked at her words, he says, “Come on, Kate! You don’t mean that.”
A small snort of mirthless laughter escapes her lips. “I have to get back downstairs. Mike’s waiting.”
When she comes to bed, Kate can just make out the outline of Paul’s form on the oversized armchair near the window. He seems to be asleep.
She wearily crawls into her side of the bed, exhausted from keeping up the pretense of happiness; anesthetized by the wine. It’s going to be a very long week.
She closes her eyes and tries to banish the images of Paul’s unfaithfulness that keep scrolling past her vision. But his measured breathing is a constant reminder, and she resorts to her childhood trick. Stop it, her mind repeats over and over.
Don’t think. Stop it …
Kate dozes on and off for most of the night. At one point, when she thinks she feels Paul move next to her, her inner voice says, I’m dreaming, and she goes back to sleep. It is a while later that his hand touches the curve of her waist. Not fully asleep, she flinches away from him. He becomes more persistent—his hand making slow circles down the small of her back, possessively cupping her buttocks. She moves again.
“Let me just hold you, Katie. I can make it better.”
That’s when she sits up. “Get away from me, Paul. Nothing you can do is going to make it better. Not for a long time.” Scooting up against the headboard, she pulls the covers up around her. “I want you to get out of the bed.”
He gets up without another word.
Paul’s exile lasts nearly two weeks. Christmas has been a farce played out for the benefit of her parents. Once they are safely on the plane that will take them back to Tempe, Kate reenters their home, goes directly to their bedroom, and removes his pillow, underwear, and bathrobe to the guest room.
Paul never does understand her need for distance from him. His advances would have been sweet, playful sexual forays had Paul and Kate been living in happier times. But, as things stand, Kate sees them o
nly as prurient reminders of what he’s done.
Kate doesn’t know how she’ll get through the New Year’s party she’s planned, and on December 27, she cancels it, to the very vocal dismay of all their friends. Kate is also disappointed. It has always been her night to shine.
Mike is probably the most surprised at the change in the natural order of the universe, and he says so. “Wait a sec, Kate. Do you mean to tell me I have to come up with my own form of entertainment on December thirty-first? I won’t know how to act.”
“Things change, Mike,” she tells him, and she wonders if he knows, when he says, “Not really, darlin’.”
Kate is already dressed for bed when Paul knocks on the door. She sits up a little taller and puts the book she’s been trying to read across her lap.
“Come in.”
It takes a moment for the door to open. What she sees makes her smile shyly, and causes her heart to melt.
Paul is standing in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in his tuxedo, a boyish grin on his face. He holds a bottle of Perrier-Jouet champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.
“I know things aren’t good between us right now, but I couldn’t stand the thought of New Year’s Eve without you, baby.” He takes a step inside. “Let’s at least drink a toast to the good times.”
As he walks to the bed, she can feel herself giving in to his appeal. And as he sits down in front of her, she reaches for his bow tie, saying, “You never could tie this thing straight.”
She had forgiven him that night, but she would never lose the small corner in her heart reserved for the significant pain he’d brought into her life.
Kate knew exactly how Mike felt. The only difference—and it was a major difference—was that she truly regretted what had happened. Paul never had.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
After Mike had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with his nephew, Matt stayed away from home the rest of the afternoon. When he finally pulled into the driveway, and his mother greeted him as she had any other day, he knew his uncle hadn’t said anything to her, and for that he was grateful. Matt was eating his dinner when he remembered the envelope he’d taken from the tower room. It lay on the passenger seat of his car, and as soon as he’d finished his second helping of meat loaf, he excused himself from the table and retrieved it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Matt studied the nondescript envelope. It was addressed to Paul Armstrong care of the San Francisco Giants. The address was printed in black felt pen. There was no return address. The postmark—faded and partially gone where the stamps had given up their hold—gave no clue from where it had come.
He folded up the metal tabs that held it closed and one of them broke off in his fingers. Matt shook the contents out onto his bed. Five photographs of various sizes fluttered to the blanket.
Matt flipped the top photo over. He didn’t know what to expect, but this wasn’t it, and he quickly turned over the rest and spread them out. Completely baffled—totally engrossed—he was startled by the knock on his door.
“Matt?”
Swiftly collecting the pictures, he shoved them back into the envelope, saying, “Yeah?”
“Mike’s on the phone for you.”
“Oh, man!” he whispered to himself. Standing, he ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could somehow disappear.
“Matt? Come on, he’s waiting.”
“Yeah—okay. I’m coming.” He took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. There was no denying it. He was scared shitless.
Matt followed his mother downstairs and cautiously brought the receiver to his ear.
Without preliminaries, Mike said, “Meet me at Gypsy Hill Park right now. I don’t want to have to wait for you.”
His uncle hung up, but Matt kept talking, pretending Mike was still on the line. When he hung up, he turned away from his mother’s gaze and, with a mouth gone dry with fear, said, “He needs some help. I won’t be long.”
Mike’s truck was easy to spot. It was the only vehicle in the park on this frigid December evening. Matt pulled in next to it, but didn’t see his uncle. He climbed out of the MG on shaky legs. The muscles in his arms contracted in adrenaline shock when he heard Mike’s voice.
“Over here.”
Mike stood in the shelter of the bandstand, nearly invisible. Walking as confidently as he could, Matt trod along the path that circled the duck pond and then crossed the tiny stream that meandered through the park. The grass, brittle from the cold, crunched under his shoes.
When he was a few feet from Mike, he said, “It’s cold. Why did you want to meet here?”
In a voice as chilled as the air, Mike answered, “Because I didn’t want you in my home.”
Matt didn’t know how to respond to the frosty words. Mike pulled himself out of the shadows, and Matt got a good look at his grim face.
“Once I was out of the way it didn’t take you long, did it?” Mike said.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“You little shit,” Mike growled.
Matt looked away, then at the ground. “I didn’t know how you felt about her. I’m sorry, Uncle Mike.”
“Don’t call me that. If you’re old enough to fuck the woman I love, you’re old enough to call me Mike.”
“That’s not what happened! I swear!”
“So she said. How come I don’t believe it?”
“She’s telling you the truth!” Matt was shivering and he stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “Y’know … what happened … it wasn’t her fault.”
“Excuse me, but it takes two.”
“Look—she was really drunk …”
“I don’t care. You both knew what you were doing.”
Matt faced Mike. “I’m trying to tell you! She didn’t know.”
“Bullshit!” The words exploded around Matt’s ears. “You got into her pants and into her precious room. Was she worth it?”
Matt rocked back at the force of Mike’s wrath.
“Tell me, Matt! I’ve been waiting a very long time to find out.” Mike grabbed a handful of Matt’s jacket and brought him close. Matt could smell the leather of Mike’s jacket and the scotch on his breath. “How did she sound? What did she feel like under you?”
“She thought I was Paul,” Matt said in a strangled voice.
But Mike was beyond reason. “Where did it happen, you shit? Did she take you into her bed? Did she scream out your name when she came?”
“She thought I was Paul!” Matt repeated, shouting this time. “Listen to me, Mike, please! She didn’t know who I was, okay?”
Mike suddenly let him go, and Matt staggered backward.
“Get out of my sight,” Mike said.
Pleading with him, Matt said, “You’ve got to forgive me, Mike. If I’d known—if you’d said something about the way you felt about Kate—I would’ve stayed away. I didn’t know!”
“Get out of here!” Mike said with more force. “I mean it, Matt!”
From the sound of his voice, Matt may as well have been on his knees when he said, “Please don’t say anything to Mom …”
“You selfish little prick.”
“It’s not for me. I don’t care about me!” He held out his hands in supplication. “I just don’t want Kate to be hurt anymore. I didn’t realize how things were with her.”
“How noble of you.” Mike sneered. “The next Prince Charming of baseball.”
“It was a mistake! Haven’t you ever made a mistake, Mike?”
“The biggest mistake I ever made was trusting the two of you.” He swept past Matt and headed for his truck.
Matt’s voice battled with the wind that had kicked up, scattering desiccated leaves along the ground. “You’ve loved her for all these years, Mike! Don’t cut her loose now.”
Mike sat in the bay window of his dark bedroom, staring out across the street at Kate’s house. It was long past midnight. The wind that gusted around the house made it come alive wit
h low moaning sounds. The maple tree’s bare branches whipped back and forth, casting moon shadows on his tired face.
No one … no one to talk to.
The upper hallway light came on in her house, and then, a few seconds later the window of the tower room lit up. He could just make out her figure moving through the room, and his face became grim as he remembered Matt standing there.
She thought I was Paul …
Mike closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them she was standing at the window, looking out at his house. He knew she couldn’t see him, but he sat perfectly still, holding his breath. She finally turned away, and he slowly exhaled, trying to force the longing out of his body. She could hurt him like no one else, and that was his fault. He’d let himself in for it.
It was a mistake …
Three days now since he’d talked to her. Three long days had gone by, and he’d gone over their last words a hundred times. He had come to the inevitable conclusion that he couldn’t live without her, but didn’t know if he could live with what she’d done. Out of nowhere, his mind would show him clips of Matt and Kate that made him cry out in anger and frustration, and he’d think, I can’t forgive this. And then he’d remember the Kate he’d grown up with, and he’d want her all the more.
God, he needed to talk with someone. He perversely wanted to know every detail of what had happened that night. But he didn’t trust himself to be able to rationally listen to the two people who could tell him. That night in the park, Mike had barely been able to control himself. He’d wanted to beat Matt senseless. That kind of anger had scared him with its force. He’d never felt anything like it, and it took every ounce of restraint to rein himself in. If he could contain himself, why the hell couldn’t Kate?
The light went out in the tower room, followed by the hall light, and her house sank into the night. Too weary to move to his bed, Mike let sleep overtake him on the padded bench of the window seat.
The slamming of a car door woke him. Blinking against the light of day, he watched as Matt strode up Kate’s walkway and onto her front porch. The door opened and, after a few seconds, he slipped inside the house.
Remember the Time Page 23
