Another Eden (33 page)

"Are you crying because of Daddy?"

She shook her head with a wan smile.

"Then it must be because of Mr. McKie."

That sobered her. She stared at him, aghast.

"Do you like him more than you liked Daddy?"

She reached out to smooth back his hair, then straighten his collar, dithering. They never lied to each other. But how could she answer?

"I miss seeing him."

"Who, darling?" she asked, confused.

"Mr. McKie. He doesn't come to see me anymore."

"No, I know. He's going away."

Michael looked stricken. "Where?"

"To California. He was going before, remember?"

"Yeah, but—"

"He has a new job. He's going now. Tonight." She looked at her watch; a fresh wave of misery rolled over her. "On the train?"

"Yes."

"Can we go and say good-bye?"

"It's better, I think, if we don't." Michael turned his head, but not before she saw the splash of tears on his cheeks. "Will he come back?" She shrugged, not trusting her voice.

"If he doesn't come back, I can never give him his Christmas present. Please can't we go and see him? Now, at the station? Please, Mummy?" She shook her head miserably.

Michael brought his skinny, bunched-up fist down on top of her desk with an ear-splitting crash, toppling a vase of paper flowers and half a dozen picture frames. "Damnation!" he shouted, causing her to jump in astonishment. "Why can't we? Why?" When she didn't answer, he kicked the edge of her desk twice, hard. "You never say why!" he raged, and ran from the room.

She was so surprised, she almost went after him. Tantrums were as foreign to him as they were to her, and she wanted to see more of this new Michael. She wanted to know if this novel reaction was an aberration or a harbinger of things to come. She wanted to know whether she ought to feel worried or hugely relieved.

But she let him go, out of respect for his privacy. They would talk later. A deep, pervasive sorrow crept through her, making her ache, compounded by a loneliness so intense it was nearly intolerable. Why was she enduring this pain? She could say one word and put an end to her suffering, Michael's, and Alex's. Was Alex right—was she being an idiot? She felt as if she were treading a thin line between black and white, darkness and light. Always she had chosen the dark, repeatedly, every time but once. She'd believed it her duty, her personal moral imperative to do so. But whom would she hurt now by choosing the light? Her "duty" was making the two people she loved most in the world miserably unhappy.

She heard a thump and turned to see Michael maneuvering a very large and ungainly wooden object through the door to her study. He set it down on her desk without ceremony, knocking over more picture frames, her pencil jar, and her ink bottle, fortunately closed, in the process. "What is it?" she asked. A natural question, she'd have thought, but Michael took umbrage.

"Well, it's a pointed horseshoe arch," he buffed, his tone adding the "What do you think?" without saying it. "They built mosques with it in Cairo in the eight hundreds."

"Of course," she said feebly.

"It's Alex's present and I want to take it to him."

She looked helplessly at the pointed horseshoe arch, which bore, she thought, an uncanny resemblance to a colossal set of false teeth, stained brown. She looked at Michael. Slowly his expression of arrogant defiance—a new look, and absolutely fascinating to her—changed, softening to the sweet, gracious, tenderhearted lines she knew so well and loved so dearly. He stepped closer, put his hand on her neck. She reciprocated. Gray-blue eyes looked into gray-blue eyes. A message passed between them. Either could have vocalized it, but it was Michael who said first, "I love him too, you know." Then, "Can't we go see him, Mum?"

Sara felt humbled and exalted. "I didn't know," she confessed readily. "I should have. I just didn't realize." She kissed him and stood up. "We'll go and say good-bye. Did you know it's snowing? He'll be glad to see us." Michael, she could tell, understood the non sequitur perfectly. "Give me a minute to splash some water on my face." And fix her hair. "You call Mr. O'Shea and tell him to bring the carnage round right now, immediately. Tell him I said it's an emergency. Do you know the number?"

"Sure. Eight-oh-one-one?" he asked to be sure, beaming.

"Right. Then put your coat on and meet me at the front door. Okay?"

"Okay! Can I take my arch?"

"Well, of course. Alex can't go off to California without his arch." They hugged quickly, intensely, and then she flew out the door.

"Which one is it, Mum?"

Sara scanned the list of arrivals and departures printed in yellow chalk on the long double blackboard. "I don't see it," she muttered, biting her lips. "It's not here." She turned, searching the cavernous station for the information kiosk. All but two ticket counters were closed, and most of the people waiting on the shiny wooden benches were late commuters bound for home in Yonkers or White Plains or New Rochelle. The echoing station was ill-lit and slightly smoky; a burnt, vaguely electrical smell mingled with the odors of coffee, overcooked pork, and disinfectant. Efforts to brighten the concourse with Christmas greenery had been defeated by the sheer immensity of the place, and the results were halfhearted and stingy-looking. Sara spied the information booth under the huge clock across the way and pointed. "We'll ask that man there."

Even carrying his pointed horseshoe arch, Michael was faster than she was, his hasty steps loud on the worn marble floor. But when he got to the desk, he forgot how to put the question.

"Where's the train leaving right now for San Francisco?" asked his mother.

A bald clerk in striped shirtsleeves and celebratory red bow tie smiled with infuriating calm. "There ain't one."

"There has to be!"

"Nope. Got one pulling out in a minute or two for Newark, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Toledo, and Chicago."

"No—"

"Got one leaving in twelve minutes for Atlanta via Washington, Roanoke, and Asheville. One just left for Boston by way of Hartford—"

"Chicago!" Sara guessed frantically. "He'll probably change there. Is anything else going west
right
mow?"

"Well, let's see." He pushed his green visor back on his hairless head and thought, while Sara squeezed her hands together and Michael spun around in a frustrated circle. "Got a nonstop to St. Louis leaving in—" he squinted up at the great clock over his head—"four and a half minutes. Track 9."

"St. Louis," she breathed.

"Which one is it, Mum, which one? Hurry!"

It could be either, she realised, panicked. "Which track does the train to Chicago leave from?" she asked ungrammatically. "Number four." He pointed behind her.

Number four was closer. "It's that one," she told Michael positively. It had to be. The clerk called out after them, "You'll never make it, it's leaving now!" They kept running. "Tickets?"

They braked to a halt at the turnstyle leading to the outdoor platform and Track 4. "We're seeing someone off," Sara explained hastily. "Everyone's on board, the train's leaving, ma'am," said the sad-faced ticket collector. "Please!" she cried. Michael looked ready to scream. "Well, go ahead, then, but the train's leaving."

They rushed out onto the cold, snowy platform. "Look in the windows," Sara instructed. They sped along sideways, peering up at the high, brown, steel-sided train. The first cars were baggage cars and curtained sleeping compartments. Michael set his arch on the ground and started running, and Sara trotted fast to keep up in her high-heeled shoes. From up ahead someone yelled, "Board!" A whistle blew.

"Alex!" shouted Michael, leaping up and down and pointing at the window of the third lounge car. "Alex! Hi! Hi!" He turned to Sara as she reached him, panting, "He can't see me!"

"Oh, lord." She stood on tiptoe and rapped her knuckles against the glass. But there was too much train noise—he couldn't hear her. "Alex!" she and Michael screamed in unison. He was facing away, gazing across the car. At last the woman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said something, pointing. He turned—saw them grinning up at him. His beloved face lit up in delight, and Sara started to cry.

He jumped up, squeezed out of his seat, and pointed to the door behind him. They nodded, hurrying back down the platform to wait for him. He threw open the sliding steel inner door and rushed down the two steep steps to the platform. Michael yelled, "Alex!" and hurled himself at him. Alex swept him up in a jubilant bear hug. Uncertain, Sara hesitated for a second, then threw her arms around both of them.

They stood that way, thumping each other's shoulders and pressing their faces together, laughing and sniffling until Michael squirmed down and ran off.

"Where's he going?"

"To get your present." She stepped back into his embrace with teary alacrity. "You were right, I was an idiot."

"No, no," he said gallantly.

"Yes, I was. God, you smell good. I wish you weren't going. Stay and have Christmas with us."

His arms around her tightened; he closed his eyes. "I wish I could."

"Oh, if only I'd done this sooner!" she wailed. "What made you change your mind?" He smiled down at her with great tenderness, his fingers warming her cold cheek.

"Michael. I love you, Alex. And Michael does, too. And it doesn't take anything away from the feelings he had for his father. I hadn't understood that. Stupid of me—I should've known."

"I didn't have time to wrap it," Michael cried breathlessly, rushing up and setting the awkward wooden contraption at Alex's feet. Sara kneaded her fingers nervously, trying to catch Alex's eye so she could mouth the name of the gift over Michael's head. But Alex squatted down in front of it without looking at her.

"Well, well, look at this!" he exclaimed, with what Sara considered commendable, even award-winning enthusiasm. "Can you tell what it is?" Michael prodded.

"Let's see." He turned it this way and that, narrowing his eyes. Sara cleared her throat, but to no avail; he wouldn't look up. "Looks like an arch to me. A pointed arch. Pointed
horseshoe
arch."

Michael crowed. Sara's jaw dropped.

"Board!"

Alex stood up, grimacing.

Michael grabbed his wrist. "Will you come back?"

"Definitely."

"Can we come and see you?"

"I hope so."

"I hope so too," Sara echoed, misty-eyed. She wanted to kiss him so badly. Whistles blew at either end of the platform.

"Come soon," Alex said, reaching for Sara's hand. She nodded, squeezing back. "Michael, what do you think of the idea of your mother and me getting married?"

Sara went poker-stiff, but Michael grinned and looked down at his feet. "I think it's a good idea," he mumbled, shy. Alex coaxed his head up with one gentle finger under his chin. "You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure."

"Great. Thanks, pal."

What astonished her was how casually Michael had accepted it—almost as if the idea wasn't even new to him. "What about me?" she thought to ask. "Isn't anyone going to ask me what I think?" Whistles shrilled again, angry and impatient. "I accept!" she clarified hastily.

Laughing, Alex hugged Michael, then Sara. He gave her a quick kiss. She tried to hold on, but he muttered, "Gotta go," along with a soft, explicit curse. Scooping up his present, he turned and got on the train. A deafening blast of steam sounded from the engine; far up ahead, a flagman waved a red lantern. The train jolted once and glided away.

They all waved. Alex yelled something. Sara cupped her ear. "What?" He shouted again.

Michael said wonderingly, "He says come now."

"What?"

Alex jumped to the pavement again and sprinted toward them, laughing. "Come with me now. Come on."

"Yes!" shrieked Michael, leaping up and down on his tiptoes. "Yes! Can we? Can we?" Sara stared at them as if they'd both gone berserk.

"Come on," grinned Alex. "Let's go." He started walking backwards, one arm stretched out invitingly. Michael followed, beside himself "But—Mr. O'Shea's waiting outside with the carnage."

They sent her pitying glances. "We'll call from Newark and straighten it all out," Alex said kindly. The train was picking up speed. "All your presents, Michael—you won't get any!" He looked incredulous, one hand on his hip. "Well,
I
don't care about that!"

Sara froze for two more seconds, then yelled, "Hurry!" She ran toward Michael, scooped him up under the arms, and shoved him at Alex—who whirled and dashed up to the next door, which was sliding by at an alarming rate, and deposited Michael on the steel platform. Sara ran fast on his heels, breathless with exertion and excitement. Alex grabbed her arm and half-lifted, half-hurled her up behind Michael. Racing now, because in four more strides there wouldn't be any platform left, he leapt for the high step, just as Sara and Michael made a grab for his coat and yanked.

He made it. No one spoke. All they could do was stare at each other in amazed disbelief while the train sped faster and faster, whistle screaming, and snow swirled past like furious white bees.

The forward inner door slid open and a uniformed porter faced them in the threshold. The surprise on his big, friendly face mirrored the same emotion in theirs. "How do? You folks got tickets tonight?"

"Uh oh. Oh no, oh no," fretted Michael, clutching Sara's sleeve, fearing the worst. It was easy to see whose child he was, she thought ruefully. "Have we got any money, Mum? Maybe Alex could lend us—"

"I've got money," she assured him, laughing.

"We got plenty of seats, and still plenty of compartments in the sleeping car," the porter said helpfully. "Not many folks traveling tonight. Where y'all going?"

"California," Michael answered importantly.

"By way of Chicago," Sara explained.

"Where we're getting married," Alex elucidated.

Sara felt herself blushing. "We'll see."

"She always means yes when she says 'we'll see,' " Michael confided to Alex in a conspirator's voice.

"I'll remember that."

The porter's face split from ear to ear with a white-toothed grin. "Well, ain't this somethin'? Y'all ain't even got any baggage, have you?" Sara and Michael shook their heads.

"Well, that's not true," Alex corrected. "We happen to be traveling with one of the finest examples of a pointed horseshoe arch I've ever seen." Michael giggled, pinkening with pride. Alex reached into his pocket and handed something to the porter. "Would you mind helping the young man to a seat near mine? And after that, maybe you could find a sleeping compartment for mother and son—not too far away from mine, either." He didn't wink, but he wanted to.

"Yes,
suh
. You just leave all that to me. My name's Lewis, and I'll be takin' care of y'all on this trip." He eyed Michael benignly. "Need a hand with that?" The swaying of the train made it difficult for Michael to walk with his arch in his arms; he relinquished it to Lewis carefully, then preceded him through the sliding door.

Following him down the aisle, Lewis started to chuckle. Michael looked back, "
I
know they just want to kiss," he said with quelling matter-of-factness, and the porter's wide eyes widened further.

On the platform, Alex draped Sara's arms around his neck and pulled her closer, bracing his back against the fire door for stability. Snow reeled and eddied around them and a freezing wind howled, but they were warm against each other. "Is he right?" Alex asked. "Does 'we'll see' mean yes?" Before she could answer, he kissed her.

She sighed with her eyes closed. "Mm. Usually, yes. Not in this case, though, I don't think."

"Oh God, Sara," he groaned, "don't say that." He kissed her again, deeply, and again, until they were both breathing hard. He pulled away to see if he was getting anywhere. "Come on," he coaxed. "Marry me in Chicago. We'll find a justice of the peace, some sentimental soul who won't mind being rousted out on Christmas night. Michael can be ring bearer."

She smiled dreamily and shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

Alex frowned. "Reconsider," he advised, running his tongue along the fragile inner surface of her lips. She caught her breath when he nibbled her top lip between his, then tickled the roof of her mouth with his tongue.

"Unh," she breathed softly, deep in her throat, while his hand snaked inside her unbuttoned coat and stroked her stomach in possessive little circles. "Alex," she tried to say, but he kissed her again, and his mouth was a ruthless silencer.

He slipped his other hand in and cupped her bottom through her gown, pulling her up tight against him. He groaned again, not sure which of them he was torturing now. "I love you, Sara. Marry me," he mumbled, lips sliding wetly from her mouth to her ear, her throat. "Marry me in Chicago."