Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  He found the address easily, an imposing Tudor at the end of a cul-de-sac. He parked in the curving driveway and stared at the house.

  “Is everything okay?” said Anne-Sophie.

  “Fine,” he said. The man was loaded, that much was clear. He thought of his mother, working for minimum wage at Shively’s Cleaners in town. They’d kept her on for years despite her constant lateness, her frequent absences. On her slim paychecks she’d fed and clothed him and Jody, with no help from Kimble. She was too proud to sue for child support or alimony; she’d never asked their father for a dime. Charlie thought of the speech he’d prepared, how he’d shame the man, make him admit every despicable thing he’d done. You kidnapped us. You lied to my mother. You said you were coming back.

  “Ten minutes,” he told Anne-Sophie. “Ten minutes, and we’re out of here.”

  They walked up the curved driveway, lined with bare trees. Anne-Sophie wore a thin sweater, leather pants that cupped her behind. Charlie chafed under his collar. She had talked him into a tie.

  He lifted the brass knocker and held it for a second. He could still leave, turn around and drive away. They could call the house from a pay phone somewhere. This is Charlie. I’m sorry. I couldn’t make it.

  “What’s the matter?” said Anne-Sophie.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  He knocked firmly at the door. Music inside, soft footsteps; then a woman opened the door.

  “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Dinah.” She looked about Charlie’s age—tall and blond, the sort of woman he’d turn around to look at in the street. He felt suddenly sick.

  “Charlie Kimble,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Welcome.” A ray of sunlight cut sideways across her face, lighting the pale down of her cheek. A strange flush covered half her face. Her hand was warm and surprisingly strong.

  “Come in.” She was barefoot, her jeans streaked dark at the thighs, as if she’d wiped her hands on them. “The thermometer just popped. Charlie, can you carve a turkey?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  They passed through a large dining room: high ceilings, golden wood floors. A long table was set with china and silver. His house, Charlie thought. I’m in his house.

  “Ken and Jody are in the living room,” said Dinah. “Brendan is upstairs.”

  Blood pounded in his ears; Jody had told him there was a son. He thought again of the plummeting airplane, hurling toward the earth.

  They went into the living room. Ken Kimble sat in a leather armchair near the fire. He got briskly to his feet.

  “Charlie.” He offered his hand.

  Charlie’s heart raced. They stood eye to eye; their hands were the same size.

  “Good of you to come.” Kimble stood very straight, his chinos sharply creased. For an instant Charlie remembered him lean and suntanned, running along the beach.

  Charlie nodded. He felt paralyzed, incapable of speech. Sweat trailed down his back.

  Jody rose from the sofa. She wore a skirt and high heels, a phenomenon he hadn’t witnessed in years. Even dressed up, she looked like what she was: an athletic, horse-loving tomboy with muscular legs and a round, open face.

  “Charlie,” she said, embracing him. “It’s about time.”

  “Hey, Jo.” He clasped her quickly, grateful to turn his back on the man. Then he turned to the wife.

  “Didn’t you need some help with the turkey?”

  DINAH LED Charlie into the kitchen, an ache in her throat. How alike they looked: the same long face, the same nose and forehead and jaw. Jody favored her mother, red-haired and buxom. Charlie was the picture of Ken.

  He stood at the window, examining the shiny leaves of a bromeliad that bloomed in a corner. He seemed more interested in her plants than he’d been in his father.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “We both are.”

  “Thanks.” He looked ready to run, like an animal caught in a trap.

  “Let’s have a look at that turkey,” she said.

  Together they lifted the bird out of the roaster. The skin was golden brown; dark juices pooled in the pan.

  “It’s huge,” said Charlie.

  “You sound like your father.” He said nothing. A spot of red appeared in each cheek.

  Dinah tilted the roaster and poured the drippings into a saucepan. “He’s doing much better. He was pretty weak at first. Exhausted. But he seems to have his energy back.”

  Charlie stared at the floor. A flush crept up from his collar.

  “That’s good,” he said finally.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dinah. “This is all so bizarre. It must be very confusing for you.”

  “I’m not sure why I’m here.” At last his eyes met hers. “I haven’t seen your husband in twenty years. He’s a complete stranger to me.”

  Your husband. The coldness of the words shocked her.

  “That’s a long time,” she said.

  Charlie took the knife from her hands and inspected the turkey; he made a neat incision into the breast. A lock of hair spilled over his brow—thick and curly, a dark auburn. That, at least, was his mother’s.

  “Your hair got darker,” she said without thinking.

  He stared at her quizzically. His cheeks were now violently red, as though he’d been slapped. “How would you know?”

  She took a deep breath. “I knew you when you were little. You and Jody. You probably don’t remember.”

  He frowned.

  “I was Dinah Whitacre then.”

  “Dinah,” he repeated. Then his brow cleared. “The baby-sitter?”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved. “I was going to tell you on the phone, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

  “The baby-sitter.” He began to laugh. “He married the baby-sitter.”

  Her cheeks burned. “That was years later, of course.”

  Charlie laughed harder, a deep sound that ended in a cough. He seemed to be choking. Finally he dabbed at his eyes.

  “I don’t know why I’m laughing,” he said.

  “It’s quite a coincidence,” she admitted, turning away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “It’s okay.” She busied herself at the stove, heating the pan drippings for gravy. When anyone asked how she and Ken had met, she jokingly described it as a hit-and-run. The details of that afternoon outside Emile’s—the ice, her broken ankle, the drive to the hospital—came easily to her, the words familiar from years of repetition, like a hymn learned in childhood. Yet she never told the other part of the story; even their oldest friends weren’t aware that Dinah and Ken had known each other before. He married the baby-sitter. She’d never thought of her marriage in quite those terms. It sounded to her like the stock plot of a porno film, incredible and slightly obscene.

  “How is your mother?” she asked, changing the subject. “Ken told me once that she’d moved to the country. That was years ago.”

  “She’s still there. Not much has changed with her.” His eyes met hers. “She still drinks.”

  Dinah thought of her last evening baby-sitting at the Kimbles’. Ken had already left by then, run off God knew where with one of his students. Mrs. Kimble came home late that night, wet and bedraggled, her shoes in her hand. At the time Dinah had suspected, but wasn’t sure, that the woman was drunk.

  “She drinks?” she asked, stirring the gravy.

  “Has for years. Since they got divorced.” He seemed to speak more easily now that her back was turned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing he would have told you.” He handed her the platter of turkey.

  “No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”

  They brought the food to the table: turkey, potatoes, cranberries, stuffing. Odors rose from the table, familiar as rain; Charlie thought of his grandma Helen’s table, laden with food. It astonished him, that Thanksgiving dinner
could smell the same even here.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs.

  “Brendan,” Dinah called. “Come and meet Charlie.”

  The kid appeared on the stairs, like a wild animal lured by food. He was nearly Charlie’s height but much heavier, with pudgy forearms and big soft hands. He had an odd haircut, long on top, shaved around the sides. A crop of pimples bloomed near his mouth.

  “Hi,” said Charlie.

  “Hey.” The kid was badly, expensively dressed: baggy jeans, a sweater with an emblem over the chest. His high-top sneakers were perfectly clean, as if they’d lived their lives indoors.

  “Do you care where I sit?” he asked his mother. His voice was deep and slurry, his mouth full of braces.

  “Wherever you want,” said Dinah.

  The kid sat heavily in a chair. He kept his head down as the others trickled in: Jody, Kimble, Anne-Sophie. Only his eyes moved, following Anne-Sophie’s ass in the leather pants. Charlie wanted to laugh. He remembered that age, the world full of female parts, how one of his mother’s hairstyling magazines could keep him busy in the bathroom for a month. For you, pal, he thought. Happy Thanksgiving.

  They arranged themselves around the table: Kimble at the head, Anne-Sophie next to him. Charlie sat at the opposite end next to Dinah, avoiding her eyes.

  “Would anyone like to say a blessing?” she asked.

  “Not me,” said Kimble. “I got out of that racket years ago.”

  That racket, Charlie thought. How inspiring.

  “Charlie?” said Dinah.

  “No, thanks,” he mumbled, coloring.

  She shrugged. “Let’s dig in, then.”

  The dishes circulated. Kimble decorated his plate with small dollops of vegetables and stuffing, a slice of corn bread. Then he mixed the foods together with a swirl of his fork. Charlie felt a flash of recognition, like a sudden headache: the tiny kitchen of their house in Richmond, his father mixing meat and potatoes in a single pile. He felt something break in him, a flat stone skipping across the surface, sinking to the bottom.

  “I’m sorry your boyfriend couldn’t make it,” Dinah told Jody. “Russell, isn’t it?”

  “He’s not feeling well,” said Jody. “The flu, I think.”

  Flu, my ass, Charlie thought. Russell was a married doctor Jody had met at work; he was probably at home, celebrating the holiday with his wife and kids. Jody had been saying for years that the marriage was on the verge of collapse. He wondered if she still believed it.

  Dinah filled the wineglasses; at the other end of the table, Kimble chatted with Anne-Sophie. He was done with commercial development, he told her; made his money and got out while the getting was good. He was working on a new project, subsidized housing for low-income families. “In my dotage,” he said, as if he were so confident of his youthfulness that he could afford to make fun of his age.

  “You’re retired?” said Anne-Sophie. “I can’t believe it.”

  Kimble beamed. “Semi-retired. I’m sixty-five, sixty-six in January. Dinah is my child bride.”

  Charlie stared at his plate.

  “I read somewhere that the French have a formula,” said Kimble. “Have you heard this? For marital happiness. The woman should be half the man’s age, plus seven years.”

  Jody giggled. “That’s silly.”

  “It’s the ideal over there.” Kimble winked at Anne-Sophie. “Am I right?”

  “I’ve heard something like that,” she said. “But it’s a joke. It isn’t serious.”

  “Of course not.” Jody doused her potatoes with gravy. “It doesn’t make sense. If both people are the right age now, what happens in ten years? The numbers don’t work.”

  Kimble smiled. “In ten years Dinah will be too old for me.”

  Charlie glanced at Dinah.

  “Have some more stuffing,” she said, handing him the plate.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jody. “Then how is anything supposed to last? More than a couple of years, I mean.”

  “It’s not serious,” Anne-Sophie repeated. “It’s just an expression. Something old men like to say.”

  Ken Kimble laughed.

  It seemed to Charlie that everything froze at that moment: the chewing and passing, the silverware noises.

  “My dear,” Kimble said to Anne-Sophie. His cheeks looked pink and healthy; his eyes twinkled. “How on earth can you blame us?”

  Charlie felt a flash of heat. He pushed his chair away from the table.

  “Is that what happened with you and my mother?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” said Kimble.

  “Charlie, don’t,” said Jody. She had the same transparent redhead’s skin as their mother. Her cheeks looked full of blood.

  “Don’t what? I’d like to get in on this conversation.” He turned to face Kimble; he felt strangely calm. “How old was my mother when you married her?”

  “I don’t recall,” said Kimble.

  “She was eighteen,” said Charlie. “And you were how old?”

  “Thirty-two,” he said stiffly.

  Charlie gave a low whistle. “A little young for you, no? Even by the French standard? But then, you like them young.”

  “Stop it!” Jody cried. A tear ran down her cheek.

  “What do you want from me?” said Kimble.

  Charlie’s heart was loud. “I’d like you to explain yourself.”

  “What good would that do?”

  Charlie laughed. “Absolutely none. But it might be entertaining.”

  Kimble spread his hands. “Son, I have nothing to say.”

  Charlie got to his feet.

  “I’m going to get some air,” he said. “And I’m not your son.”

  ALL ALONG the cul-de-sac the houses radiated light. Imported sedans lined the curving road. Charlie was startled to see his own car in the driveway. It seemed that days had passed since he’d driven down from Baltimore; weeks, months. The light was waning. In another hour it would be dark.

  He sat on the front step. The wind had kicked up; he smelled pavement, exhaust, snow on the way. The fabric of his shirt breathed turkey and cooking herbs. A catering truck idled in the next driveway; young men in white shirts loaded it with boxes. That was more what he’d expected from a Great Falls Thanksgiving: hors d’oeuvres, catered food. Dinah had surprised him with her blue jeans, her plants hanging in the sunny windows, her copper pots steaming on the stove.

  He inhaled deeply, picturing the way she’d once looked: the blond hair in braids, the purple stain covering her eye and cheek. She was a girl then, barely a teenager. He wondered, briefly, how it all happened, how she and the old man had gotten together. Then he realized he didn’t want to know.

  He walked around to the rear of the house. The lawn was impeccably tended, lined with shrubs. A dormant garden sat out back. In the distance he saw flashes of light, cars speeding along Leesburg Pike. The yard would be secluded in summer, protected by lush woods. Everything was dead now, the trees starved and bare.

  He glanced back at the house, the kitchen windows ablaze with light. A figure crouched beneath the underpinnings of the deck. It was the kid, trying to light a cigarette.

  “Hey,” said Charlie.

  The kid put the cigarette in his pocket. He looked stunned. He thinks I’m going to tell his mother, Charlie thought. He thinks I’m an adult.

  He reached into his pocket and tossed the kid his lighter. “Try this.”

  The kid stared at him for a second, then took the cigarette from his pocket. He tossed the lighter back to Charlie, who took out his own pack.

  “Thanks,” said the kid.

  They leaned against the house and smoked, hiding from the wind. Charlie was grateful for the cold, the bricks at his back, the quiet. The silence soaked in like an ointment.

  “Hell of a dinner,” he said finally. “Your mom can cook.”

  “Yeah,” said the kid. “She’s good.”

  Charlie tugged at his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. �
��I’m sorry about all that in there. You shouldn’t have to hear that. For all I know he’s a great father to you.”

  The wind whistled through the bare trees. The kid smoked his cigarette down to the filter. His big hands were as soft as a girl’s, the nails bitten to the quick.

  “He isn’t,” he said finally.

  “Isn’t what?”

  “A great father.”

  Charlie watched him.

  “He’s never home.” The kid shrugged. “Fine by me; I like it that way. But my mom is alone too much.”

  Charlie squashed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “Mine too,” he said.

  The kid flicked his cigarette butt into the yard. “Did she ever get married again?”

  “Nah.” Charlie shrugged. “I think he cured her on marriage forever.”

  The kid took another cigarette from his pocket. “Your girlfriend’s pretty,” he said. “Where’s she from?”

  Charlie tossed him the lighter. “France. She’s French.”

  The kid lit his cigarette. “I was going to take French. I took Spanish instead.”

  “How do you like it?” said Charlie.

  “I’m failing. It sucks.”

  “I failed French. It sucked too.”

  The kid laughed, a barking sound. He kicked at the ground with his sneakered toe. “Is it true you haven’t seen him since you were six years old? That’s what my mom said.”

  “Almost.” He was surprised, somehow, that she’d told him. “We went to visit him once when he was living in Florida, me and my sister. I was ten. We stayed for a couple of days. Then we ran away.”

  “No shit?” The kid seemed impressed. “My mom didn’t tell me that.”

  “She probably doesn’t know. He was married to someone else then.” He thought of Joan in her flowered caftans, Joan who’d bought them flip-flops and taken them to Disney World.

  “The one that died?” said Brendan.

  Charlie stared at him. “She died?”

  “Yeah. She had cancer. That’s what my mom says.”

  Charlie nodded. He felt dizzy and slightly sick, nerves and nicotine.

  “What was she like?” the kid asked.