Bygones

PUBLISHED BY G. P PUTNAM’S be DISTRIBUTED BY BEJO READERS DIGEST BOOKS READER’S DIGEST ASSOCIATION (
Canada
) LTD. CONDENSED BOOKS DIVISION 215

ISBN 0-hhhej-bhj-X
All
rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or parts thereof In any form.

FIRST EDITION PRINTED IN THE
U.s.a.

The apartment building resembled thousands of others in the suburban
Minneapolis
-
St.
Paul area-along brick rectangle with three floors, a set of steps on each end, and rows of bruised doors lining stuffy, windowless halls. It was the kind of dwelling where young people started out with cast-off furniture and bargain basement draperies, where toddlers rode their tricycles down the halls and could be heard through the floors when they cried. Now, at
six o’clock
on a
cold
 
January
night, the smell of cooking meat and vegetables sifted under the doors, mingled with the murmur of televisions, tuned to the evening news.

A tall woman hurried down the second-floor hall. She looked out of place dressed in a classic winter-white reefer coat bearing the unmistakable cut of a name designer, her accessories—leather gloves, handbag, shoes, and scarf-of deep raspberry red. Pulling the scarf from her head, Bess Curran knocked at the door of number 206. Lisa flung it open and exclaimed, “Oh, Mom, hi! Come on in. I knew you’d be right on
time
. Listen, everything’s ready, but I forgot the sour cream for the stroganoff, so I have to make a quick run to the store. You don’t mind keeping your eye on the meat, do you?”

“Stroganoff?
For just the two of us?
What’s the occasion?” Lisa threw on a jean jacket over her dress. “Just give it a stir, okay? And light the candles and put a tape on, will you? That old Eagles one is there that you always liked.”

The door slammed, and left Bess in a backwash of puzzlement.

Stroganoff?
Candles?
Music?
And Lisa in a dress and pumps?
Bess wandered into the kitchen. Beyond the galley-style work area, a table was set for four. She studied the table curiously-blue place mats; the leftover pieces of her and Michael’s first set of dishes, which she’d given to Lisa; and two blue candles, in holders she’d never seen before, apparently bought specially for the occasion on Lisa’s limited budget. What was going on here? She went to the stove to stir the stroganoff, which she couldn’t resist sampling.
Delicious-her own recipe, with
consomme
and onions.
As she replaced the cover on the pan she realized she was famished: she’d done three home consultations today, grabbing a hamburger on the run. She promised herself, as she did every January, to limit the home consultations to two a day.

Going to the front closet, she hung up her coat. She found matches, lit the candles on the dinner table,
then
lit two others in clear, stubby pots on the living-room coffee table. Beside these a plate held a cheese ball waiting to be gouged and spread onto Ritz crackers. She stood staring at the cheese ball. What the devil? She glanced around and realized that the place was clean for a change. Her old brass-and-glass tables had been dusted, and the cushions plumped on the hand-me-down family sofa. The jet-black Kawai piano Lisa’s father had given her for high school graduation hadn’t a speck of dust on it. On top of it a picture of Lisa’s current boyfriend, Mark, shared the space with a struggling philodendron.

The piano was the only valuable thing in the room.

When Michael had given it to Lisa, Bess had accused him of foolish indulgence. It made no sense at all-a girl without a college education or a decent car or furniture owning a five-thousand-dollar piano. Lisa had said, “But Mom, it’s something I’ll always keep, and that’s what a graduation present should be.”

Bess had argued, “Who’ll pay when you have to have it moved?”

“I will.”

“On a clerk-typist’s salary?”

“I’m
waitressing
, too.”

“You should be going on to school, Lisa.”

“Dad says there’s plenty of time for that.”

“Well, your dad could be wrong, you know. If you don’t go on to school right away, chances are you never will.”

“You did,” Lisa had argued.

“Yes, but it was hard, and look what it cost me. Your father should have more sense than to give you advice like that.”

“Mother, just once I wish the two of you would stop haggling, and at least pretend to get along, for us kids’ sake. We’re so sick of this cold war.”

The piano had remained a sore spot. Whenever Bess came to Lisa’s apartment unannounced, the piano held a film of dust on its gleaming jet finish and seemed to be used as a depository for books and scarves and all the other flotsam of Lisa’s busy two-job life.

Tonight, however, it had been dusted, and on the music rack was the sheet music for Michael’s favorite song, “The Homecoming,” which in years past Lisa had often played for him.

Bess turned away from the memory of those happier times and put on The Eagles’ Greatest Hits tape. While it played she used Lisa’s bathroom, glancing in the mirror at her disheveled streaky blond hair. After the day she’d put in, she liked undone-her lipstick was gone, her makeup worn away, and there was a small grease spot on the jabot of her raspberry-colored blouse. She frowned at the spot, wet a corner of a washcloth, and made it worse. Just then a knock sounded at the door of the apartment.

Bess called down the hall, “Lisa, is that you?”

The knock came again, louder, and she hurried to answer it.

“
Lisa,
was…” She pulled the door open, and the words died in her throat. A tall man stood in the hall-trim, black-haired,
hazel
-eyed.

He was holding a paper sack containing two bottles of wine.

“Oh, Michael . . . it’s you,” she said tightly.

He stared in displeasure. “Bess
.
. . what are you doing here?”

“I was invited for supper. What are you doing here?”

“I was invited, too.”

Bess curbed the desire to slam the door in his face, and instead released the doorknob and spun away, muttering, “Cute, Lisa.”

Michael followed her inside, setting his bottles on the kitchen counter and taking off his coat. Bess hustled back to the bathroom to put herself as far from him as possible. In the glare of the vanity light she combed her hair hard, slashed some of Lisa’s scarlet lipstick on her mouth, and glared at the results. Damn it. And damn him.
for
catching me when I look this way. Her brown eyes, in the mirror, were flat with fury. And-damn you for squandering so much as a second caring what he thinks.

After what he did to you, you don’t have to pander to him.

She rammed her fingers into her forelock and ground it into a satisfying mess.

“What are you doing back there, hiding?” he called irritably.

Six years since the divorce, and she still wanted to kill him.

“Let’s get one thing clean” she bellowed down the hall. “I didn’t know a thing about this.”

“Let’s get two things clear! Neither did
I
! Where is she, anyway?”

Bess whacked the light switch off and marched toward the living room with her head high and her hair looking like a serving of chow
mein
noodles. “She went to the store for sour cream, which I’m cheerfully going to stuff up her nostrils when she gets back here.”

Michael was standing by the table studying it, his hands in the trouser pockets of his gray business suit.

“What’s all this?” he said as she passed behind him, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Bess opened the refrigerator door looking for wine. Inside were four individual salads prettily arranged on plates, a bottle of Perrier water, and a pint of sour
cream.
“My, my, if it isn’t sour cream.”

He came and peered over the open refrigerator door. “If you’re looking for something to drink, I brought some wine.”

The smell of his shaving lotion, which in years past had seemed endearingly familiar, now turned her stomach. She slammed the door. “Well, break it out, Michael. We apparently have a long evening ahead.”

She took two glasses from the table and held them while he poured the pale red rosy. “So . .
.where’s
Darla tonight?” she said.

“Darla and I are no longer together. She’s filed for divorce.”

Bess was rattled. She hadn’t spent sixteen years with this man not to feel a mindless shaft of elation at the news that he was free again. Or that he’d failed again.

Michael set the bottle on the counter, took a glass for himself, and met Bess’s eyes directly. It was a queer, distilled moment in which they both saw their entire history in a pure, refined state, way back to the beginning-bath the splendid and the sordid that had brought them to this point.

“Well, say it,” Michael prodded.

“Good. It serves you both
right
.”

He shook his head. “I knew that’s what you were thinking. You’re one very bitter woman, Bess, you know that?”

“And you’re one very contemptible man. What did you do, step out on her, too?”

“I’m not going to get into it with you, Bess. All it’ll lead to is a rehash of old recriminations.”

“I don’t want a rehash, either. Until Lisa gets back, we’ll pretend we’re two polite strangers who just happened to meet here.”

They carried their drinks into the living room and dropped to opposite ends of the sofa—com the only seating in the room. The Eagles were singing “Take It Easy,” which they’d listened to together a thousand times before. The sofa they sat on was one upon which they’d occasionally made love and cooed endearments to one an- j other when they were both young enough to believe marriage lasts forever. They sat upon it now, resenting one another and the intrusion of these memories.

“Looks like you gave Lisa the whole living room after I left,” Michael remarked.

“That’s right. “I didn’t want any bad memories left behind.”

“Of course, you had your new business, so it was no trouble buying replacements.”

“Hope. No trouble at all,” she
replied
 
smugly
. “So how’s the business
going
”

“Gangbusters!
I could do half a dozen home consultations a day if there were three of me.”

He studied her in silence. Obviously she was happy with the way things had worked out. She was a certified interior designer now, with a store of her own and a newly redecorated house.

“So how’s yours?” she inquired, tossing him an arch glance.

“It’s making me rich.”

“Don’t expect congratulations. I always said it would.”

“From you, Bess, I don’t expect anything anymore.”

“Oh, that’s funny” She cocked one wrist and touched her chest. “You don’t expect anything from me anymore.” Her tone turned accusing. “When was the last time you saw Randy?” she asked.

“Randy doesn’t give a damn about seeing me.”

“That’s not what I asked. When was the last time you made an effort to see him? He’s still your son, Michael.”

“And he’s nineteen. If he wants to see me, he’ll give me a call.”

“Randy wouldn’t give you a call if you were giving away tickets for a Rolling Stones concert. But that doesn’t excuse you for ignoring him. He needs you whether he knows it or not.”