C
harlie would remember it for the rest of his life, the quiet hum of the baby blue Cadillac trundling down the dirt road. It was late summer and hadn’t rained in a month; the car raised a cloud of dust as it traveled down the path. He stood in the yard watering pepper plants from a china basin. His grandma Helen had planted them in June, right before she died. His mother seemed to have forgotten them, but Charlie would not. He watered the plants every other day. All by himself he kept them alive.
A man wearing a pale suit stepped out of the car. He came toward Charlie in a bright cloud of dust, the particles lit up by the early sun.
“Good morning, son.” He was two heads taller than Charlie, who that spring had been the tallest boy in the fourth grade. “Where can I find your mother?”
“She’s inside,” he said. It was her day off from work; she wouldn’t rise before noon.
The man squinted in the sunlight. “Can you take me to her?”
Charlie headed down the dirt path to the house, the man following. Jody sat on the back porch playing with a toy truck.
“Hi,” she called.
“Hello,” said the man.
“This is a cement mixer.” She reached out to show him the truck. “I had a dump truck but I lost it.” Her face and hands were dirty. She would talk to anyone; she couldn’t help herself.
The man said nothing. Charlie opened the screen door and the man followed him inside.
B
IRDIE SAT
at the table in her nightgown, drinking wine from a jelly glass.
“Hello, Vivian,” he said.
She got to her feet, upsetting the glass. For years she’d imagined what she would say. (
You will burn in hell forever
. And
You are a poor excuse for a man.
And
We’re fine without you, just fine.
) When she spoke, none of these things came out.
“Good Lord,” she said. “What happened to your hair?”
They stood there a moment, staring at each other. Charlie watched them from the doorway, eyes wide.
“Mama?” he said.
“You run along,” said Birdie. “Go keep an eye on your sister.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Go ahead, son.” His voice was deeper than Birdie remembered. He wore a beautiful seersucker suit.
The screen door slammed. For an instant she thought she was dreaming. But no: she would not have dreamed him bald.
“I’ve been driving all morning,” he said. “I went to Richmond looking for you.”
A slow drip, the wine she’d spilled dripping from table to floor.
“I asked around the neighborhood. Nobody knew where you’d gone. I took a chance and drove down here.”
“Daddy died,” she blurted out. “We live here now.”
“I see.” His eyes went around the kitchen, to the dishes piled in the sink.
“You’re looking good,” he said.
Her hand went to her hair; it hadn’t been washed in a week. Like most things, this day had caught her off guard. She had not seen him in three years.
“Thank you,” she said faintly.
“Let’s clean this up,” he said, swabbing the table with a tea towel. “Then we can sit down and catch up.”
“W
HO WAS THAT
?” said Jody. She had abandoned her truck and stood at the door, peering through the screen.
“Nobody.” Charlie refilled the basin at the outside tap and headed toward the garden.
She followed him. “What does he want?”
“I don’t know.” He splashed water over the tomato plants. A few of them drooped in the sun; he’d have to tie them up to spikes, the way Grandma Helen had done.
“I’m going in the house,” Jody announced.
“Wait!” He grabbed her by the shirt. “Stay here.”
“How come?”
“Because.” He couldn’t say it out loud; he wasn’t sure. “Go get that old coffee can on the porch. I’ll let you water the turnips.”
“Really?” she said. It was Charlie’s garden; he rarely let her near it.
They watered the turnips and cucumbers and pole beans and
collards, the mint and chives and parsley and dill. Six times Charlie refilled the china basin. When there was nothing left to water, he wiped his hands on his pants.
“All right,” he said. “We can go in now.”
Just then the screen door opened. The man came down the porch steps and gave them a brief wave.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” he called out.
He got into the baby blue Cadillac and drove away.
B
IRDIE SAT
in the bath, soaking. She heard the screen door slam, the children’s footsteps rumbling up the stairs. A knock at the bathroom door.
“Mama’s taking a bath,” Birdie called out. “She’ll be out in a minute.” She rubbed her shoulders with a washcloth, her grimy ankles, her heavy white breasts.
“Who was that man?” Jody called through the door.
Birdie hesitated. She hadn’t decided what to tell the children. She rubbed her wet hair with a bar of soap.
“That was your father,” she said.
A long silence. Finally Charlie spoke.
“Where did he come from?”
“Florida,” said Birdie. He had a parish down there, his own congregation; the parsonage was surrounded by orange trees. “Wait till you see it,” he’d told her. “Summer all year long.” Birdie couldn’t imagine such a thing. She supposed she’d get used to it.
“Go and get yourselves dressed,” she said. “Your father will be right back. He’s taking us out for an ice cream.”
“Then what?” said Charlie.
Birdie slipped her head underwater to rinse out the soap. She had asked about his girlfriend, the hateful Moira Snell; they had parted company ages ago. She sat up and squeezed the water from her hair.
“After that,” she said, “we’ll see.”
T
HE MAN
came back that afternoon in the same striped suit, carrying a bunch of carnations. Charlie’s mother went to the door. She wore lipstick and a flowered dress. She put the carnations in a jar of water and rubbed at a spot on her collar.
Charlie and Jody watched from the parlor, in Sunday clothes. Charlie watched carefully. He had to make sure the man was his father.
He’d been six years old when his father left; yet he remembered almost nothing. His grandma Helen had told him this was natural; his father leaving was a shock to his system. Still he kept trying, squeezing hard the way he did at school when he couldn’t see the chalkboard. (He had glasses but wouldn’t wear them.) He could bring up only two faint memories. A time when they were picking elderberries for jelly and Charlie tripped and fell, spilling his bucket of berries. His father had knelt to pick them up; all Charlie remembered was the top of his head, the comb marks in the thin black hair, the white scalp beneath. This man was almost bald; the little hair he had was gray, not black.
Another time they’d walked in deep snow. It was high, above Charlie’s knees, and cold where it slid into his rubber boots. His father had carried him on his shoulders, but here again Charlie couldn’t recall a face. All he remembered was the whiteness, the
thick soft blanket over the houses and trees, the whole world shrunken and quiet.
Now the man stood close to Charlie’s mother. He grasped her elbow and murmured something in her ear. She ought to know if it was him; but Charlie had no faith in her. She barely managed to get herself to work in the morning. Each day it was Charlie who woke her and made sure she didn’t go back to sleep, who walked her to her job at the dry cleaning store in town.
His mother took the man’s arm. “All right,” she chirped. “Who wants ice cream?”
They rode in the man’s car to the Dairy Freeze out on the highway. The car was silent inside, the velvety backseat wide as a sofa. Jody bounced up and down and squealed with delight. She was six and didn’t understand anything.
“Quit it,” said Charlie. Then he remembered. The two adult heads rising above the front seat; the man’s head nearly touching the roof of the car, his long neck craning forward from the head-rest. It wasn’t much, but Charlie didn’t need much.
The man was his father.
They got twisted cones, brown and white, and sat at a picnic table in the parking lot. His father paid for everything. His mother ordered vanilla custard and forgot to eat it; Charlie watched it melt in the paper cup. Then they rode back to the house.
“You children stay outside for a while,” his mother said. “Play outside until it gets dark.” She led Charlie’s father into the house. The screen door slammed behind them.
“What do you want to do?” said Jody.
“Nothing,” said Charlie, but he got a rubber ball from under the porch and kicked it to her. Jody couldn’t throw and couldn’t catch; she’d duck if you tossed a ball in her direction. Back and forth they
kicked the rubber ball. Charlie watched the house, checking the windows for signs—of what, he wasn’t sure.
“This is boring,” he said after a while. “I’m going to Terence’s.” He cut through the woods to his friend Terence Mabry’s house. He wanted to show Terence the big blue Cadillac, parked behind the house as if it had always been there. He allowed Jody to follow. He could see she had nowhere else to go.
The Mabrys’ truck was gone; a single light burned in the kitchen window. Charlie and Jody wandered into the backyard and sat on the swing set. The rusty chains scattered flecks of brown on their good clothes. At dusk the bug sounds started abruptly, as if someone had put the needle on a record. Charlie picked out cicadas, katydids, the low gargling of bullfrogs.
“Can we go home now?” Jody asked.
“Let’s wait awhile,” he said.
I
N THE KITCHEN
the light was fading; Birdie and Kimble sat with glasses of wine. She’d panicked when he found the bottle in the refrigerator, but he didn’t seem upset. He cleared the clutter from the table and poured them each a glass. She had never seen him touch alcohol.
“To our family,” he said, raising his glass. “They’re terrific kids. You’ve done a magnificent job.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I know it hasn’t been easy.” He set down his glass. “We had our problems, but I was wrong to leave like that. I’ve regretted it every day since. I wonder if you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Birdie frowned. In her opinion they’d had no problems at all until Moira Snell appeared on their doorstep; but she wasn’t about
to split hairs. He had come back; he had admitted he was wrong; and she was tired. Tired of worrying about the roof (it leaked), of walking to town in the rain (she’d sold the Pontiac ages ago). Since Helen’s death she’d had the cooking and shopping and laundry to do, on top of her loathsome job at the dry cleaner’s. She’d had enough of this life. She was ready to be a wife again.
“I want to talk about the future,” said Ken. “Our future as a family.”
Birdie lifted her glass to her lips and found it empty; Ken refilled it without a word. His own glass was still full.
“I’d like to take the children on a vacation,” he said. “Maybe take them down to Florida.”
“Vacation?” Except for trips to Missouri to visit his parents, they’d never gone anywhere together. Long drives made Birdie carsick; he must have forgotten that. Still, if a vacation was what he wanted, she was willing to try.
“That sounds lovely,” she said. “I’d like to get away.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Ken fingered his glass but didn’t drink. “I was thinking it would be just me and the children. The three of us. Give us a chance to get to know each other.”
Birdie set down her glass. Outside a mockingbird trilled, a final aria before nightfall.
“What about me?” she said.
He reached across the table for her hand. “We have to be careful. All this is going to be an enormous shock to them. Little Josephine doesn’t even remember me. I’d like to spend some time alone with them before—” He squeezed her hand.
“Before what?”
“Before we turn their lives upside down.”
His hands were cold. Far away, in the town, a fire whistle shrieked; somebody’s house or barn was burning.
He smiled. “Well? What do you say?”
Birdie felt flushed, clammy; a headache starting at her temples. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t let you take them.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Be reasonable. I’m their father. I’ll take good care of them.” There was a slight edge to his voice, a tone that meant he was losing patience.
“Of course you would,” she said hastily. “I know that. It’s just—” Her mind raced. “They start school in a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get them back in time.” He raised her hand to his lips. “See? Problem solved.”
Birdie closed her eyes. The kitchen was stifling, the wine going to her head; she hadn’t eaten except for a few bites of ice cream. If she refused he could disappear in an instant, drive away in his glorious car. Then what would she have?
“Well,” she said. “If you think it’s for the best.”
Again he squeezed her hand. “You’re a wonderful mother, Vivian. The children are lucky to have you.”
Her cheeks felt very warm. “When can I come to Florida?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One thing at a time.” He stood and pulled her to her feet.
“Now that everything is settled,” he said, “come here.”
He drew her close; she did not resist. The divorce had never seemed real to her; she’d burned the papers when they came and never told a soul. In her mind he was still her husband. She felt wobbly on her feet. She leaned heavily against him as they climbed the stairs.
Her bed was unmade and piled with clothing. She’d tried on a dozen dresses that afternoon before settling on the flowered one.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she said.
He placed the pile on a chair and pulled her down to the bed, slipped out of his trousers like a snake shedding its skin. He unbuttoned her dress and reached inside; for what seemed like hours he nuzzled at her breasts. Curtis, she thought. The name was magic to her; it always brought about the desired result when she was alone. But this time nothing happened. His movements stopped; he collapsed with a shudder. Finally he rolled off her and lay at her side.
“I need a shower,” he said.