After that they stood quietly for a moment, Sarah rocking the baby on her hip and John studying the walls and the ceiling.
"It's from the Sistine Chapel, isn't it?"
"Yes. The Creation of Adam." She pointed up at Will's portrait. "In the original that's Eve. Cowering behind God."
"Cowering?" He laughed.
"I think so. If you look at her eyes. Of course, all I have are reproductions in books."
She had clipped to the ladder a page torn from her art history book, and she plucked it from the clip and passed it to him.
"What do you see? In her eyes."
John studied it quietly for a moment.
"She does look a little anxious." He smiled.
"Yes. Like she's very unsure about the whole thing."
"What whole thing?"
"Oh, all that man business. And earth. I think she's much more comfortable with God. It's like she's saying, 'Can't we just leave things the way they are? This is fine with me. Why mess with things?'"
She laughed lightly, but then grew quiet when his eyes swept over her face. The curtains whispered and a cool mist blew in from the sprinkler. Even Will perched quietly on her hip.
"I can't have children, Sarah. It's me. Not Susan. One of those classic cases of mumps when I was young. It didn't really bother me. I thought fatherhood was reserved for more ordinary men. Not someone like myself. I always had this belief that I was a chosen one, that I was destined to make some great discovery, work out some theorem that would make history. But when Will came along, he turned my head. Despite what's happened, I still can't help but feel he was meant to be in my life. That he's brought me here."
Sarah took a step toward him but he held up his hand and stopped her.
"No, Sarah," he whispered. "I'm not trying to seduce you."
"I didn't mean..." She paused, mildly flustered.
"Don't be embarrassed," he said quickly. "God knows, I dream of you all the time. I dream of making love to you. But it's more than that, and I don't know how to define it, or what I'm supposed to do with it. I don't know why you're so important to me. But I know you are. And I'm confused."
Will was distracted by a sudden movement in the tree outside the window, the rustle of leaves as a bird took wing. He turned his head, pointed to the open window.
John smiled at the child. "Bird. That's a bird."
He leaned forward and kissed him on the head, then strode swiftly out of the room and down the stairs. Sarah took Will to the window to wave, but John did not look back.
CHAPTER 24
The circumstances of her accident had left Susan with a bitterness that worried her mother-in-law, and so Nancy Wilde urged her to consult a therapist, believing this might help Susan deal more effectively with her anger. Early in the week the therapist had called and asked to meet with John privately. John drove to Lawrence that day, expecting the session to be an update on her progress.
Dr. Redpath took a seat in an armchair next to a table scattered with a few Field & Stream magazines, and John sat on the other side. The doctor lifted his glasses off his nose, rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the back of a hairy fist, and apologized for keeping John waiting ten minutes. Then he began to ask questions. He asked about their marriage, about their plans for the future, for their family. They were not threatening questions, but John found them disturbing. They were questions he had never really pondered until these past few months, and now he had no convincing answers. Had Dr. Redpath asked him to explain Bohm's theory of in- visible morphogenetic fields or Ramanujan's partitions theory, John would have acquitted himself with much greater ease.
Dr. Redpath listened carefully to what John said, and he could sense that behind his cautious and sometimes vague answers was a man of deep moral integrity. After he had asked many questions and listened to John's replies, he poured a glass of water for himself and took a drink, then he began to speak.
"Your wife is a very intelligent woman."
"Yes. Of course she is."
"She's quite capable of assessing what is happening to her right now. And she knows, and I know, and I thought you should know, that it is not just an issue of trauma we're dealing with here. It's about parenting. It's about the little boy."
John felt his stomach roll over and a sudden nausea sweep through him.
"His name is Will."
"She doesn't refer to him by name."
"Why not?"
"She needed to create a distance from him. I helped her do that."
"Why would you do that? Why would you try to create a distance where there needs to be warmth and closeness?"
Dr. Redpath reached again for the glass of water and sat up a little in his chair.
"Susan confided in me some of her behavior with regard to Will. She came very close to some actions that would have had severe consequences."
"What was that? What are you referring to?"
"Well, she came rather close to a violent response. On several occasions, I gather. She's been honest with me."
"Has she hurt him?"
"No. She was able to pull herself back. She recognized what was happening."
John leaned forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands tightly. "I didn't know. I knew how frustrated she got. I think she neglected him sometimes. She'd ignore him when he got too much for her." John looked up, quizzical. "Don't other parents ever get like that?"
"They do. Especially with children as difficult as Will."
"He's not that difficult anymore." John leveled his eyes on Dr. Redpath. "He's made a lot of progress since she last saw him."
"I'm sure he has."
"He's calmer. He sleeps better. He's eating. He's gained four pounds."
Dr. Redpath watched the body language, the way the man became animated when talking about his son. He realized it was going to be much more difficult than he had imagined.
"That may be in part because of the young woman you've placed him with. I understand she's developed a bond with him."
John dropped his eyes. "Yes. She has. But I'm hoping it'll carry over."
"Affection... bonding... does not necessarily carry over. Sometimes unique bonds are created... or not created... as the case may be."
There was a long silence, and Dr. Redpath noticed the blank stare.
"Mr. Wilde?"
There was not an immediate reaction, only a slow, tentative response.
"I can't give him up."
"John, not everyone wants to be a parent. Not everyone needs to be a parent. Not everyone should be a parent. I think your wife falls into all of those categories. This is not a judgment on her. It's just a fact of life."
"No," muttered John under his breath, his eyes still fixed in space. "No."
Dr. Redpath hesitated before he said quietly, "You have to make a decision. You chose to marry Susan, and you've lived, from what I can gather, some very good years together. You strike me as an exceptionally compatible couple. And your family is extremely supportive of you and your wife. Would you say this is true?"
John nodded slowly.
"These are assets that only become more important as the years go by, as you grow older together. You have to decide how important that is to you."
"You're saying I have to decide between Will... between my son and my wife?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"Is this your professional opinion? Or is this what Susan wants?"
"She wanted me to talk to you before you saw her. She didn't feel she was strong enough emotionally to put it to you as clearly as I could."
"You mean give me an ultimatum."
"The mental health of your wife is at stake. And, of course, Will's safety, too."
There was another long silence, and then, abruptly, John rose and nodded his thanks to Dr. Redpath. Dr. Redpath followed him to the door, and then John paused and turned and met the doctor's gaze.
"I know you mean well," John said.
Then he turned
and left.
He sat in his car for the longest time. Flint-colored thunderheads advanced swiftly across the sky, and he could hear deep thunder in the distance. It started to rain, and he watched as another patient arrived and scurried down the walk with her purse clutched over her head. Finally he started up the engine. He drove slowly, trying to make out the road through the steady downpour.
He pulled into the driveway of his parents' home and cut the engine. The windows of the old BMW had fogged over and he sat locked in his thoughts, hidden from the world, when suddenly the car door flew open and Susan hopped in and quickly slammed the door behind her.
"God, this rain!" She lowered the raincoat from her head and turned to him with a wary smile. "How about if we go for a drive?"
He looked up at her and only gradually the blank look lifted and he seemed to see her and he smiled.
"Hi," he said and reached out and touched her hand.
She gave a sigh of relief and swallowed nervously.
"Shall we go for a drive?"
He wiped a patch of fog from the windshield with his hand.
"In this?"
"Your mother's home."
Her wrist was still in a cast, supported by a sling, but she looked rested and much happier than he had seen her in a long time. She had lost weight and had taken to sunbathing at the club and her skin had a robust, healthy color.
"Oh, John," she whispered, holding his gaze. "I tried so hard..."
"I know you did."
"I thought it was because I was doing something wrong. I thought it was all my fault. But it's not..."
She paused, waiting to hear some word of absolution, but there was none.
"Dr. Redpath helped me see that," she went on. "He said—"
"He explained it all to me."
Timidly, she reached out and laid a hand on his arm.
"But you still blame me."
"Things can still work out. It's not hopeless." His voice was colored with such optimism that Susan withdrew her hand and stared at him in stunned disbelief.
"You didn't understand anything at all, did you? You didn't hear what he was saying."
"But he doesn't see things—"
"No, John," she whispered through a strangled voice. "You're the one who's blind."
There was a long silence, and when she spoke her voice was low and unsteady. "We have something worth fighting for in our marriage. I think it'd be a tragedy to throw it all away. This has been a horrific time for me. For both of us." She tugged the raincoat up around her shoulders and reached for the door handle. "Let's give us time to heal."
She left him sitting there. The sun came out and turned the car into a steam bath. He sat with his hands on the wheel and sweat trickling down his face and fog steaming up the windshield until he could no longer bear it. Then he went inside to shower and get ready for dinner.
CHAPTER 25
The Flint Hills Rodeo drew contestants from all across the country—steer ropers from Texas and bull riders from Colorado and Wyoming, bronc busters from California. In his younger, wilder years Billy Moon had done a little of it all, had ridden the bulls and wrestled the steers, but now he kept to roping, stayed pretty much on the back of his horse, counted on his skill with a lasso and his good timing to bring home the silver buckles and the big money prizes. It was the young drifters who went for the bull riding and the bronc busting, traveling the circuit from one rodeo to another, arriving all tough and grim-faced with their saddles hoisted over their shoulders and their overnight bags in their hands, with just enough money in their pockets to cover the entry fee, a few beers, and a cheap room for the night. But the steer ropers like Billy Moon were a different breed, many of them professional men, educated attorneys or dentists or businessmen, men with homes and wives and families, a little older perhaps, with reason to be a little more cautious.
The Grand Entry with its horseback pageantry of rodeo queens and waving flags had taken place earlier in the afternoon, and it was now getting on in the evening. Billy was sitting with a few buddies on the tailgate of a truck, sipping beer while they waited for their events. Billy had always enjoyed the company of cowboys, but this spring he found their camaraderie to be just the antidote he needed, helped him keep his mind tuned to something other than Sarah and the way she'd been avoiding him. He liked the heat and the dust and the grit on his skin, liked listening to their lumbering conversation, liked the way they prodded one another along with sharp wit and dry laughter, and silences punctuated by the sound of spit hitting the dirt. They never talked much about themselves or about people, unless it was how one-armed Ward Butler liked to test an electrical outlet by spitting on his thumb and sticking it in a live socket, and how one day he got shocked so bad he went into a coma and lay on the closet floor in his boxer shorts for two hours before his wife came home and found him. Or how the woman at the car wash up in Strong City was almost strangled to death when she dropped the water gun and it went crazy on her, flipped and flopped until it wrapped itself around her neck, and it took three guys to get it off her. For the most part they talked about the mechanics of things, things that broke down and could be fixed, pumps and air conditioners and alternators and the like. They talked about their cattle, their horses, their dogs, and their trucks. They never talked about their cats or their women.
Somebody checked his watch and noted the time, and Billy slid off the tailgate and tossed his empty beer bottle into the front seat and headed back to where his horse stood tied to the side of the trailer. A truck hauled a trailer by, kicking up a cloud of dust, and when the dust settled he looked up and saw Sarah coming toward him across the field. She was carrying the baby on her hip, John Wilde's kid, and Billy turned away and heaved the saddle up onto his horse. The sight of that kid called up all kinds of resentment. He knew all about how she had taken him on this spring, knew the whole sorry situation, about Susan and the baby's poor health, but Billy felt there was something more to it, felt Sarah was hiding behind her new status as mother to avoid settling some things that needed to be settled between them. Billy liked things to be simple and clear. Sarah had never been simple and clear.
He didn't turn around right away, even after she greeted him, just sort of grunted out a reply and reached under the horse's belly to grab the cinch and buckle it up. She was talking to the horse, trying to get the kid to pet him. She took the baby's hand in hers and stroked the horse's nose, then tickled the soft, velvety muzzle.
"Careful. He bites," Billy said.
"I know that," answered Sarah, but she said it sweetly and he could tell she was in a good mood. "I know this horse."
Billy watched her for a moment, then shook his head.
"You're tempting fate, girl," he said, and she backed away while he unfastened the halter and worked the bit into the horse's mouth.
She had bought the baby a straw cowboy hat that was too big for him, and she'd tied a red bandanna around his neck. Billy thought he looked ludicrous. But he seemed content, didn't seem to mind that the hat kept falling down over his eyes.
"I'm a little surprised to see you here." He slung the bridle over the horse's head.
"Why?"
"Didn't think you were very fond of rodeos."
"I came to see you ride."
He fastened the chin strap and then held the reins out to Sarah.
"Can you hold him for a minute?"
"Sure."
"Don't turn your back on him."
He stepped into the trailer, and through the doorway she could see him strip off his T-shirt and slip into a white Western shirt. He was a small man but muscular, and Sarah caught a glimpse of him as he buttoned up the shirt, white against his sun-browned chest, and she looked away.
He came out, tucking in his shirt.
"I'd better get over there if I want a good seat," Sarah said, handing him the reins. Quite suddenly, she leaned forward, laid a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him gently on the lips. Then she turned and hurried across the
field toward the stands.
She bought a corn dog from a vendor and found a place on the bleachers near the starting gate, just a few rows up. She sat there with Will, the two of them nibbling halfheartedly at the corn dog while they watched the first of the contestants. It was always the horses Sarah loved to watch, more than the riders, the way they burst out of the box with their necks stretched long and their ears up, all long-legged muscle and pounding hooves as they zeroed in on the steer up ahead and closed in on him. They boxed him in, a horse on each side, the hazer and the bulldogger, careening along beside him as he shot back and forth, adjusting their gait to the speed of the steer so they were dead even and holding him in place. Then the work fell to the horse on the left flank, the bulldogger's horse. He'd feel the shift in weight as the rider slid to the right and hung from the horn by his left hand, right foot still leveraged in the stirrup until his left foot was over the saddle and he was down in the hole. A good horse stayed the course, despite the man dangling from the saddle, kept the steer right there off his right eye while the rider got his right arm underneath that horn. There was always that moment's hesitation, and then, arm locked around the horn, the bulldogger cut loose. His feet popped up in the air and he was on the ground with the steer. The rest was up to the man, and the horse was riderless and running free.
Sarah kept her eyes peeled for Billy, and finally saw him arrive on horseback alongside his partner. She watched him line up with the other teams beside the box. She thought what a fine-looking man he was, and she knew then she didn't love him, wondered why she couldn't, wished to God she could.
CHAPTER 26
During John's visits to Berkeley he made it a point to check up on their home in San Francisco. He and Susan had purchased the house following his promotion to tenure track, but the timing was ceremonial rather than financial. He never could have afforded such a place on his income alone. After all, it was her six-figure salary they spent to renovate and decorate, her taste that prevailed, and in the long run it was her pleasure it procured. It was a long commute for him but convenient for Susan, who worked in the city, and in the back of his mind John had always felt it to be more her place than theirs.
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