by Neil Plakcy
“Nicholas Miller, you are a lousy father,” Carol said to his back.
He stopped and turned. “I’m not your father, so I find it hard to see how you can make that kind of judgment. Fred and I get along fine. I respect what he wants.”
Carol shook her head. “You’re a fool, Nick.”
Nick drove back to the apartment complex, where he found Susie was already back in the apartment. “I think we should paint,” she said. “That would make this place seem more like a home. Why don’t you go get some paint?”
“Can’t we just go back to the pool?”
Susie shook her head. “I want you to be able to live here. Get something nice in a cream, maybe with some yellow in it. That’ll make the apartment sunny. Go on, if you get back quick enough we can have the living room done by dinner.”
Nick gave up. He drove down to the hardware store on Main Street, where he found Chuck Ritter behind the counter. “Hello, Nick,” Chuck said. “How’s everything? How’s that boy of yours doing?”
“He’s being unreasonable.”
Chuck had been making changes since he had inherited his father’s store. A new sign out front, a wider range of garden supplies, and a back entrance that faced onto the parking lot. Nobody walked around the center of town any more, and with the new entrance, almost no one came in through the front door.
“Kids are like that,” Chuck said. “My father always thought I was stubborn and pigheaded.”
“This is different. Fred’s only thirteen.”
“Tell me about it. Lisa’s the same age. She wants us to treat her like a grown-up, but when she doesn’t get what she wants she cries.”
“Has she said anything about Fred?”
“She gets on the phone with her girlfriends and all they talk about is boys. I tune her out. All this free love stuff the kids talk about scares me. I want to tell ’em, love isn’t free. It costs.”
“Tell me about it,” Nick said. But it was funny to hear Chuck talk about free love that way. Susie talked about it, too, that she and Nick ought to just love each other, not tie each other up with strings or legal documents. He and Chuck walked over to the paint counter and Chuck helped him pick out a cream color that Susie might like.
Nick put his cans of paint up on the counter and Chuck rang them up. “You going to the Warner kid’s bar mitzvah?” Chuck asked as he collected the money.
“Don’t know,” Nick said. “He and Fred are good friends. So that means he’s going, and if he goes Carol will go. It might be kind of awkward.”
Chuck closed the register and shrugged. “Life is awkward,” he said.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, Susie and Nick painted the apartment and got some more furniture and a TV. Nick had to admit the place was starting to feel more like a home. One day he even invited Fred over and cooked dinner for the two of them. Fred had started back to school by then and it seemed like the trouble had subsided for a while.
“Are you coming to Dennis Warner’s bar mitzvah this weekend?” Fred asked as he helped Nick clear the table and wash the dishes.
“I think so,” Nick said.
“Is Susie coming?”
Nick shook his head. “She doesn’t want to.” He was relieved; it made things less difficult. The Warners were part of his life with Carol, and Susie seemed to understand she didn’t belong there.
On Saturday morning, Nick got to the bar mitzvah late and slipped in the back of the synagogue, a small white frame building that had once been a church. There was still a big stained glass rose window over the door, and the early fall sun glowed through it onto the people in the pews.
Dennis Warner was up on the pulpit, reading out of a scroll in what Nick assumed was Hebrew. There was Paul next to him, and an older man Nick figured was a grandfather. After the reading they wrapped the scroll up and put a velvet cover over it, and Dennis was left alone at the podium.
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it down nervously. “Mother, Father, Rabbi, Cantor, teachers, relatives and friends,” he began. He thanked everybody who had helped him prepare for this event, and made a few mildly humorous comments about his trouble in learning Hebrew.
“Today I am a man,” Dennis continued. “I am taking my place beside my father and my grandfather and assuming all the rights and responsibilities that go with manhood.”
It made Nick think of Fred, who had to step across the same path, though without a formal ceremony, or even a father or grandfather there to advise him. By tilting his head to the right, he could see the back of his son’s head, sitting next to Carol near the front of the room. His hair had been combed and slicked down, and he was wearing the blue suit they’d bought him in the spring to match one of Nick’s own. “We can be father and son,” Nick had said then.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t expected this, and hadn’t worn the matching suit. He was seized with a sudden pain in his lower chest. He couldn’t let his son slip away from him, step into manhood without his father there to guide him. No matter what else happened, he had to be there for him.
* * *
There was a luncheon at the country club after the services were over. During a break between courses, he walked up to Fred, who was sitting at the head table next to Dennis Warner. “How are you doing, son?” he asked.
Fred looked down at his plate. “All right.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“Not now. There’s all these people here.”
“Come for a walk with me. You won’t miss anything.”
Reluctantly, Fred scraped back in his chair and stood up. Nick was struck again by how much of his mother there was in him.
They walked outside. It was a nice late September day, sunny and brisk, and the leaves were just beginning to turn. “I want to see you more,” Nick said. “It’s not right, your turning away from me. I think if we can spend some time together, maybe you can forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Fred said. “You don’t love Mom any more. You love this girl at your office. So what’s it to me?”
“That’s not true. I still love your mother. I’m just not sure we should stay married, that’s all. And no matter what happens to your mother and me, I’ll always love you. You’re my son, and nothing can ever change that.”
Fred shifted awkwardly. “Can we go back inside now? I don’t want to miss dessert.”
“How about we go up to the mountains next weekend, just you and me?” Nick asked. They turned around and started to walk back to the clubhouse.
“I’ve got a lot of homework. Eighth grade is a lot harder.”
“I’m not letting you get away,” Nick said as they came back to the clubhouse door. Across the room they could see that an ice cream sundae bar had been set up by the head table, and all the kids were clustered around it.
“Yeah, Dad.” Fred took off for the table.
“I’m not letting you get away,” Nick said again, watching him cross the room.
* * *
Chuck Ritter stopped by the insurance office a couple of weeks later. Nick was beating the woods for business, trying to keep up with the cost of running two households, and he hadn’t had much time for anything else. He’d seen Fred once, when he’d gone by the house to drop some papers off for Carol, but he hadn’t been able to get the boy to agree to go anywhere with him.
Chuck wanted to review his insurance coverage now that he’d finished all the modifications to the hardware store. Nick pulled out the file, checked the coverage and recommended a couple of changes. When they’d finished, Chuck said, “So you still interested in the Outhouse Gang? Or your new responsibilities keeping you home every night?”
“Is it almost that time? Christ, it seems like it was only just summer.”
“A week from Thursday night, if you’re interested. We’re meeting behind the store, nine o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.” Nick leaned back in his chair and put his legs up. “Maybe
I can convince Fred to come, too.”
“It’s getting to be like a boy scout trip, with all the kids,” Chuck said. “Course, Harry Mosca’s boy won’t be there.”
“I heard. I was sure glad when they found him. Six weeks wandering in the jungle, wasn’t he? It’s a good thing those North Vietnamese never caught him.”
“Pure luck, Harry says. Course, the luck hasn’t been so good since he’s been back.”
“I thought he was all right, just living in California,” Nick said.
Chuck shrugged. “Susanna talks to Jane Mosca sometimes. Seems like the boy’s confused, doesn’t know what to do. Just lives by the beach, doing odd jobs.”
“Doesn’t sound bad,” Nick said. “Course, I know Harry had a lot of plans for that boy.”
Chuck stood up. “Doesn’t seem to matter how you plan, life screws everything up. But that doesn’t stop us from trying, does it?”
* * *
Nick called Fred that night. “I don’t want to hear any arguments,” he said. “You had a good time last year. And your friend Dennis will be there.”
Fred tried a dozen excuses. “No more arguments, Frederick,” Nick said finally. “Just be ready at quarter to nine.”
Fred passed the phone to Carol, and she and Nick argued for a few minutes about the Outhouse Gang, but Nick would not be moved.
Fred was sulking when Nick arrived. Nick tried to make conversation on the ride over to the hardware store, but Fred would not respond.
At least he was still talking to Dennis Warner. As soon as Nick pulled up, Fred was out of the car, and he and Dennis hung out in the shadows behind the store until everyone else had arrived.
Chuck was right. It was starting to look like a boy scout outing, some kind of father and son caper. Sandy Lord was there with his fifteen-year-old, Tommy. Chuck Ritter and his son, Bruce, who was graduating from high school soon. Paul Warner had come with Dennis.
The last to arrive was Harry Mosca. Nick expected him to be alone, having heard that Terry was in California. But there Terry was, getting out of his father’s car. His light brown hair reached his shoulders now, and he had a short, scruffy beard. In his navy pea coat and blue jeans, he looked like a man, no longer just someone’s boy. The men all gathered around him, shaking his hand and slapping his back. “Good to see you again,” Nick said.
“Good to be seen, I guess.” Terry slipped away to the kids, who gathered around him as eagerly as their fathers had.
“All right, let’s go,” Chuck said. Everybody jumped into the bed of the truck. Their destination was a farm on the Stewart’s Crossing-Newville Road, about ten miles away. Tom Laroquette had been out hiking and noticed the outhouse a few weeks before, and had made careful note of its whereabouts. He gave the directions to Nick, who was riding in the cabin with Chuck.
The guys were all still friendly toward Nick, though he thought he noticed a coolness. He sensed some disapproval from Harry Mosca in particular, but Harry’d always been so churchy and moral it was a surprise he was in the Gang at all.
Chuck slowed when they got close to the farm. “According to the directions, it should be just up ahead,” Nick said. “Right where that billboard is.”
Chuck stopped the truck in front of the billboard and he and Nick got out. “This where you saw it?” Chuck asked Tom.
Tom stood up to get a better look. “Rippling Creek Homes,” he read from the billboard. “Eighteen new home sites from the seventies, by Crossing Homes.” He turned to the other guys. “I swear, this is all new.”
Charley Woodruff jumped out and picked up a handful of dirt. “He’s right. They just started bulldozing here in the last couple of days.”
“You think the outhouse is still here?” Nick asked.
“We’d better look,” Chuck said. “Everybody out. Father and son search parties, all right? Everybody take a different direction.”
“Can I go with the Warners, Dad?” Fred asked.
“No,” Nick said. “Come with me.”
They walked straight back, trying to avoid the deep furrows made by the tractor. Nick had a small flashlight which he shone ahead of them. “Listen for the water. Tom said the outhouse was near a creek. If we can find the water, we may be able to find the outhouse.”
They stood silent and listened. “I hear something over there.” Fred pointed to the right.
The other guys had spread out around them. They walked in the direction where Fred had pointed, and after a few feet Nick heard it too, a low splashing sound.
All around them, trees had been leveled and the air was full of the smell of fresh earth. They stepped over a couple of felled oaks and the sound got louder.
“Well, we’ve found the stream.” Nick moved the flashlight in a slow arc around them. “You see anything?”
“Wait, Dad, back there.” Fred tugged on his father’s arm.
Nick played the flashlight back.
“No, lower.”
The outhouse had been turned on its side, and was nearly hidden by the branches of another felled oak. “We’ve found it!” Nick called. “Anybody hear me?”
There were answering cries. “Keep talking,” Chuck said from somewhere in the distance. “Can’t see anything out here.”
“Hold the flashlight and keep talking while I investigate.” Nick stepped carefully over the oak and prowled around the fallen outhouse.
“What do I say to them?” Fred asked.
“Anything. Just so they can hear your voice.”
“I’m here with my dad,” Fred said. “We found it. We found the outhouse.”
He kept repeating that until more guys found them, and then there was enough noise and crashing through the underbrush for anybody to hear. It took them a while to get it upright, and then to clear a path to get it out. Nick and Fred moved branches and other debris, working their way back out toward the street.
By the time they finished, everybody was sweaty and smudged with dirt, but the outhouse sat proudly on the bed of Chuck Ritter’s truck. “You guys ought to win a prize for finding that,” Terry Mosca said. To look at him, Nick thought, tall and handsome, a boy who’d make any father proud, you wouldn’t know what he’d been through.
“No thanks.” Nick pulled Fred close to him, got his neck in an arm lock, and wrestled him good-naturedly. “I’ve got my prize already.”
Fred took it for a minute, then twisted away, out of his father’s grasp. “Some prize,” he said, and jumped up into the truck. “Come on,” he said. “Aren’t we going?”
Tom: 1971
“I don’t know if we should go,” Jenny Laroquette said, standing over her daughter’s bed. “Betsy doesn’t look too good.”
Tom peered over his wife’s shoulder. “She looks the same as always.”
“But don’t you remember Andrew?” Jenny said. “When he was this age? He looked much better, much healthier. Betsy always seems like she has a cold. And she’s so pale, too, and she doesn’t seem to have much appetite.”
“You always say girls are different. Besides, your mother is going to be here in a few minutes. She’ll look after Betsy just fine.”
Jenny looked worried. “I don’t know.” She paused. “All right, we’ll go, but just for a little while.”
It had snowed a few days before, and the cold January sun had not made much progress in melting the drifts, though the streets and sidewalks were clear. Tom drove them down through the hill streets of their suburb toward the river’s edge, to the VFW hall on the north side of Stewart’s Crossing. “Imagine Chuck and Susanna married twenty years,” he said lightly, as he pulled into the parking lot, already crowded. “Think we’ll make it that far?”
“Don’t talk like that, Tom. Don’t tempt fate.”
Tom slid the car into a space at the back of the lot. “It was a joke. Lighten up. This is a party, remember?”
“I’m sorry.” As she got out of the car, Jenny pulled her skirt down and smoothed the wrinkles out. “I just don’t feel th
at much like a party. I’m worried about Betsy.”
“All the more reason to have a good time,” Tom said, coming around the car and offering Jenny his arm. “Forget about your worries for a few minutes. We can take Betsy back to the doctor if you like.”
Jenny frowned as they walked toward the door. “I don’t think the doctor knows what to do with her.”
“How about a specialist? Somebody in Philadelphia, maybe?”
For the first time that evening, Jenny smiled. “Maybe. That would be good. I’d feel better.”
“Good, then.” The music of a big band spilled out of the VFW Hall as Tom opened the door. There was a buffet line, and dancing, and an open bar. Tom kicked back and relaxed, and when the band began to play “Unchained Melody,” which had been their song while they were dating, he convinced Jenny to dance with him.
As they swayed together, he realized again how lucky he was, how beautiful and kind and smart Jenny was, how great their kids were. Everything was going to work out fine.
Chuck came up to Tom and Jenny as they were dancing. He tapped Jenny on her shoulder, and for a moment Tom thought he wanted to cut in. “You’ve got a phone call,” Chuck said, motioning toward the back of the room. “It’s your mother.”
Jenny hurried for the phone, Tom right behind her. He stood next to her as she put her hand over her free ear and concentrated. “She does? You checked it? Call the doctor—his number’s on the fridge—and see what he says. We’ll be right home.”
She hung up. “Betsy’s got a hundred and two fever, and she has a nosebleed my mother can’t stop.”
Tom shook his head. “Come on. They’ll understand if we don’t say good-bye.” All the way home, they worried in silence. This was the third time in three weeks that Betsy had gotten a high fever.
By the time they got home Jenny’s mother had already spoken to the doctor. “He sounded worried,” Mrs. Halbert said. “He said you should take her over to the emergency room at Mercer Hospital and have her checked.”
While Tom dressed Betsy in her parka, Jenny put together a bag of things in case the doctors wanted to keep Betsy overnight. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,” Mrs. Halbert said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” But she didn’t look too sure, to Tom.
