Authors: Cora Brent
I clasped my hands in my lap. “So what do you think of me? That I’m a cold-hearted brat who looks down at everyone
I’ve ever known with smug conceit?”
“
No, Angela. That’s not what I think of you. That’s what you think of you.”
“What the hell does that even mean? Marco, do you have any
idea what I’ve given up in the past 24 hours?”
That got his attention. “Now it’s my turn to ask what the hell you mean.”
I bit my lip. “I quit my job. Leased out my apartment. I stuffed all my worldly shit into my car and came back here.”
“Ah, ‘here’. You say that like it’s the bowels of hell.” He sighed. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”
“No, you didn’t. And I’m not asking you for any promises.”
He reached for my hand. “Why not?”
I began to feel dangerously close to crying. “Because I don’t believe you can follow through with them.”
He took his hand away.
“Touche, darling,” he whispered, letting me know how I’d wounded him.
“So can you?”
“Why don’t you ask me a different question?”
“Like what?”
“Like whether I’ve gone all Banger Bendetti in your absence.”
“Have you?”
“No!” he shouted. “I haven’t fucked around with anyone else since you took off. Happy now?”
“No,”
I answered miserably.
“Angela,” Marco said in a strangled voice, rubbing his eyes. “You want to know something?”
I wished he would reach for me again. “I want to know everything.”
He took a deep breath and I realized he was as close to sobbing as I was. “That guy I fucked up in Arizona? The one who put me away? He was a friend of mine. We roomed together in a crappy apartment for a time. He used to beat the shit out of
his girlfriend. She would come over full of bruises and broken limbs and I would pretend I didn’t see them. But then one day I happened to come home as he had her on the floor, pounding her with a broom handle while she screamed and pleaded. I lost it, Angela. It was my mother and father all over again. You must have heard some of the stories, all true. Best day of my mother’s life was when that bastard dropped dead. Anyway, by the time I realized what I’d done he was a bloody pulp and his girlfriend was clutching at me, shrieking at me to stop. Lucky I didn’t kill him. And I would have been put away for a lot longer if she hadn’t testified on my behalf.”
I didn’t say anything. I
tried to imagine Marco incarcerated. Three years. While I was graduating from college, moving to Boston, living a dreamy carefree life he had been locked up in some hellish desert prison. A deeper pain than I had ever known expanded in my chest.
Marco was watching me. “You can’t pick and choose what parts you want and what parts you don’t, Angela. I’m sorry. That’s the guy I am. And all those things
I know damn well you remember about me from the past? That’s who I am too. And I also know none of it is good enough for you, no matter how much I want you.” His voice dropped an octave. “No matter how much I love you.” He reached over and placed a hand across my stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Then he left. I didn’t watch him go this time. I didn’t won
der if he would turn around once more. I started the car and drove back to Polaris Lane. And it wasn’t until I turned the corner of my street that I realized one thing: I could have gone after him.
I could have told him what was in my heart, that he was a
ll I thought about, all I needed. That I was wrong about him and about me and about the town I grudgingly treasured.
“How much I love you.”
I could have said it back to him.
Grace was sitting on the couch thumbing through a magazine when I walked through the front door, pulling two suitcases after me.
“New issue of
Good Housekeeping?”
“What happened?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs. He knows you’re here.”
“Does he know everything?”
“He knows you’ve come home. And that you’re pregnant.”
“That’s everything. Great.” I struggled to drag both suitcases to my room. My mother silently took one out of my hand and followed me.
I sat gingerly on the edge of my bed. The ‘Class of ‘82’ banner stared back at me.
“Damn you,” I whispered.
“What?” Grace asked, rolling the suitcase next to my dresser.
“Nothing, Mom.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you and Daddy have always enjoyed perfection,” I said, flopping onto my pillow, quite aware my voice had taken on a petulant, withering quality. “You don’t understand what it’s like for the rest of us, grabbing for the crumbs.”
“Don’t I?” my mother said softly, an ominous note in her voice.
Something about her tone made me sit up. I stared at my mother as she chewed on a fingernail and looked off into the distance, not toward the small window on the opposite side of the room, but into the past.
Grace Franco Durant sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She had stop
ped covering the gray last winter and what was left of the artificial color was slowly disappearing. Yet, as she sat down and gazed at her grown, unhappy daughter she looked young, vulnerable.
“Mom?” I said.
Her brown eyes fixed on me clearly. “Life isn’t orderly, Angela. Things happen that you don’t expect. And sometimes things don’t happen that you do expect. Your father and I had been married for twelve years. It was always the plan, you see. Get married, get a house, start a family. But in that last…” he voice trailed off and she shook her head. “We watched a decade go by. It seemed a baby was born here every other minute. Our friends had three, four and sometimes even more children by 1960 and here we sat, your father and I, in an empty house, watching the carriages roll past.” She smiled at me sadly. “I always knew I was meant to be a mother but I despaired. I couldn’t take one more day of smiling politely at the news of yet another birth. And so, the week before Christmas, I packed a bag and took the bus to Albany. And from there, New York City.”
This was a story I hadn’t heard before. “And Daddy?”
“I loved him, of course. How could I not? But I moved in with my sister, your indomitable Aunt Cecily, and refused to budge.”
It was no family secret that my mother’s older sister was a lady unusual in her time. Some called her a trailblazer. Others called her something else. She worked her way up the corporate ladder of one of the world’s largest department stores and offered no apologies for not following the rules of the day. Never marrying, never having children. Now, well into the age of retirement, she was still going strong as ever. Only now the world had changed and the yearning women who came after, like me, had an easier time. When my mother used to tell me I was a lot like Aunt Cecily I took it as a compliment.
“For how long?” I asked. For I already knew how the story ended. Grace had come home to Cross Point Village, to her husband. She’d had the children she dreamed of. I just didn’t know what had happened in the middle.
“Six months,” she said tersely and I was shocked. I tried to imagine my fretful mother navigating the hectic world of Manhattan in her heels and her housewife frocks and found it difficult.
“I took a waitressing job,” she explained. “Oh, Cecily offered to find me a nice office position but I declined, instead choosing to work in a small diner near Times Square. It taught me a valuable lesson which I’d never learned my sheltered world of CPV, that many times it’s those who work the hardest who receive the least reward. I met a woman named Molly who had been abandoned by her husband and was desperately trying to raise her young daughter alone, an uncommon feat in those days. And then there was Ruby whose hands were so horribly gnarled with arthritis she could scarcely carry a plate and lived in terror of the approaching day that she wouldn’t be able to fend for herself anymore.”
I listened, captivated. Never had I heard my mother speak so plainly. I’d always known her to be kind to her friends and neighbors but, I’d assumed, rather narrow minded in her views on everything outside of her small daily circle.
My next question was bold. “Was there another man?”
She jerked, startled, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. She sta
red down at the carefully manicured hands in her lap. “He was a cook in the diner,” she said. “He paid a lot of attention to me. Darren was the sort who knew how to flatter a woman and since I fancied myself as worldly and cosmopolitan he let me see myself that way. Still, it wasn’t serious. But Alan didn’t know that when he showed up there one summer afternoon and found my hand folded into Darren’s as we drank coffee and talked about the unique season of a city in summertime.”
I was open-mouthed, feeling a wave of pity for my father. “What did he do?” I expected a story. Hurtful words, a solid punch perhaps.
“Nothing,” my mother said.
“Nothing?”
“He stared at me for a long moment and then turned around and left. I felt like someone had let the air out of my soul. I knew then how awful I was, how foolish. And I knew that no man on earth would ever match your father in my heart.”
“So you came home,” I finished.
“So I came home,” she agreed. “I didn’t tell him I was coming. I didn’t tell anyone. When I stepped off the bus early the next morning and into the familiar landscape of my hometown, my home, I nearly wept. I didn’t even realize that I’d missed it. Your father wasn’t here and he wasn’t at the store. And my dear Angela, I had never been so frightened. It was all catching up with me, my selfishness, my recklessness.”
“But he forgave you.” My mother’s story had stirred a quiet discomfort in my gut. I wanted to skip to the happy part.
She nodded. “I found him on the steps of the old town hall. Doing nothing, just sitting. It was Sunday and there was not a soul around. He didn’t look up when I ran to him and so I stood several feet away, so close and yet in utter misery. Finally he raised his head. ‘Grace,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to know everything. No one ever does.’ And I gave him the only answer I had. ‘I love you,’ I said. And he nodded, finally rising and folding me against him. ‘I know, sweetheart. I know.’ And so we walked back the long way to Polaris Lane, to home. And a year later your brother was born. And then there was you. So the universe gave me my dream. I was lucky. Not everyone is.”
“No,” I agreed. “Not everyone is.”
“That was a nice story, wasn’t it?” said my father’s voice.
I looked up to see him standing in the doorway of my bedroom. He was talking to me but looking at my mother.
“She forgot something, though. That maybe if we hadn’t found one another so young and in such an expectant time she could have found a different dream.”
“Alan,” said my mother in a weary voice. “You were always my dream.
The other things I fleetingly thought I wanted, they weren’t what lasted. I thought you knew.”
My father stared at her for a moment. “Welcome home, Angela,” he said, and then left us alone again.
Grace’s lips were pursed as she gazed after him. “Do you want my help unpacking?”
“No, it can wait until tomorrow.”
Or the day after that, or the day after that.
It was beginning to sink in what I’d done. That I’d be staring at that ‘Class of ‘82’ banner for a good long time, perhaps forever.
“I think I’m going to try to get some sleep now.”
“Okay, sweetie.” She patted my knee. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mom.”
I laid down on top of the covers fully dressed. Before I fell asleep I pull
ed a pillow over my ear. I did it so I wouldn’t hear the noisy engine of his motorcycle when he finally rolled into his driveway.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of absolute stillness. I cursed as I rubbed at my eyes. I’d forgotten to remove my contacts again. After a quick shower I found my mother sitting alone in the kitchen.
“Where is Dad?”
She looked at me with surprise. “He’s at the store already. They have some product coming in today and he needed to be there before 7.”
“Well, let me get dressed and I’ll get down there.”
My mother was still looking at me oddly. I sighed and explained.
“If I’m going to make a life here then I need to have a livelihood. I figure the family business is a good place to start.”
Her eyes flickered with something which looked like admiration. “Good for you, Angela.”
“You think Dad will go for it?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I do.”
As I dressed I heard the doorbell. My heart pounded as I figured it had to be Marco. I still didn’t know what to say to him. If I flung myself in his arms and professed my undying love, what would that solve? I’d been wrong to think that it was neat and simple for anyone. I’d been wrong about a lot of things.
“Angie,” my mom knocked on my door. “Krista is here to see you.”
Krista?
I winced. What the hell did my ornery cousin want? Lord only knew what Keith had told her about his run in with me and Marco last night. If he was wise he wouldn’t have said anything but no one ever accused Keith French of lavish intelligence.
My defenses were raised before I even walked into the living room but when I saw her I stopped short.
She was pale and her hair looked unwashed. She smiled at me meekly. “Hey, Angie. I think we need to talk.”
“All right,” I agreed, still wary.
Krista glanced at my mother who hovered and watched us nervously. “How about we go for a walk?”
“Sure, Krista.”
As I passed my mother on the way out the door she raised her eyebrows. I shrugged.
Krista waited for me at the end of the driveway. She stared across the street at Marco’s house. There was no sign of any movement in the dark windows.
I started walking down the sidewalk and Krista fell in step beside me.
“Cindy’s watching the kids,” she explained.
“Okay.”
I glanced at her sideways. She wore no makeup and chewed on a fingernail. “Keith told me what happened.”
I stopped. “Did he?”
“Yeah. Shannon called
me too so I know it was the truth. He feels like shit, Angie. Really, he’s sorry.” She glanced back at Marco’s house. “And he won’t be making any trouble, I swear.”
“He better not.”
Krista sighed. “It’s not you he’s all bent out of shape about. It’s not even Marco.” She looked at me earnestly. “I’m trying Angela. I mean, I’ve got all these kids, I kind of have to. But Keith and me, we’re a work in progress.”
I nudged her shoulder. “We all are, Krista.”
She wiped at her eyes. “You know how hard it is to admit all this to you?”
“Me? Why? You don’t even like me.”
Krista looked at me strangely. “Why do you think that? No, never mind. I know why. Because I was a total bitch to you from the time we hit puberty.”
“Could be.”
“You always said you’d get out of here. And you did.”
I laughed out loud. “And right back like a boomerang.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Our moms talk every day you know.”
“Did you hear why?”
Krista stared up at the high tree branches, her voice small. “Yes.”
We reached the end of the street. Krista paused, staring down the length of Polaris Lane.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not looking at me. “That we were never friends.” And then she started to walk quickly away, down the next block. I watched her get halfway down neighboring Sky Lane before I called out to her. She turned around.
“I just wanted to say that
if you ever need a babysitter, then give me a call. After all, I’ll be around.”
She nodded, a smile flashing across her face
. “I will, Angela. Thanks.”
***
I drove the short distance to Main Street and parked the car in front of Durant’s Drugstore. My father had fixed the sign. I stared at it for a long moment, thinking about three generations of Durants who had gotten by due to this modest establishment. When I was a teen the store had been an albatross around my neck. I worked there after school every day and was often required to come in weekends as well. At times I hated the store. At other times I was indifferent to whether it would survive. I’d never appreciated it.
The tiny bells were still above the door and
they sang gaily when I pulled the handle. The last time I had walked in there had ended in a vicious argument with my father. He’d said things out of fear and hurt. The same way I had lashed out at Marco. Unconsciously my hand went to my stomach.
“Didn’t get to see
you last time,” Nancy called from the cash register. I looked into her broad, pleasant face and she smiled.
“How are the dogs?”
I asked. Nancy Krejnicki had been a rough lady in her day. She ran with one of the motorcycle clubs on the arm of a dangerous man who died young and violently. Or so I was told. I never knew her as anything but mild and frumpy and forever chatting about her squad of little Welsh Corgis.
Nancy’s
face lit up and she laughed amiably about Jack and Jill, her original breeding pair. Nancy was very expressive when she spoke, gesturing effusively. I caught myself staring at a tattoo on her right arm. It was a five point star with a banner across the top. I couldn’t make out the words but that seemed unimportant. I watched Nancy Krejnicki and my mind wandered, thinking about who she had been, what she had seen. She had worked for my father for nearly ten years and I didn’t know her at all, not really. For some reason the idea brought back my mother’s strange, emotional confession. Grace told me things I would never have guessed. It begged a question: What did anyone really know about anyone else?
“
No one needs to know everything.”
Where had I heard that before?
Marco…
Nancy
clucked
.
“Well doll, you’re about a million miles removed from me so I’ll stop jawing your ear off.”
“I’
m sorry Nancy.”
Her
blue eyes were sympathetic. “No apologies. We’ve all got our troubles. Just don’t let yours dissolve you.” Nancy seemed to think that was the end of the conversation. She disappeared into the back storeroom, whistling a Barbra Streisand song.
I sighed and shuffled restlessly over to the sandwich counter.
When I looked up, Anthony Durant, dead for forty five years, was staring at me in his frozen youth. I had never realized how much he looked like my brother. Both were broad-shouldered, light haired and classically handsome. Tony was of course named for that lost uncle. At the time it must have seemed to my parents like an optimistic gesture.
“
Do you miss him?” I asked.
I’d heard my father sighing out of his back office, waiting for me to turn around. I spun and faced his tired expression.
Alan Durant nodded slowly. “I miss them,” he said.
Anthony Durant, brother. Anthony Durant, son. He had lost them both in different, awful ways.
“Daddy,” I said softly. “I’m here.”
Yes, I was here. And not just for a breezy visit, always looking toward the moment I could reasonably take my leave. I was here to stay.
My father softly cried when I hugged him. There was a lot there which didn’t need to be said. Of love and forgiveness, of trust and acceptance. Finally I pulled back, laughing.
“You fixed the soda fountain after all.”
My father nodded. “You do have a few good ideas.”
“I’ve got more than ideas, Dad. I’
ve got some money in savings. I want to invest in the store.”
My father shook his head. “You’ll need your money
for other things, Angie,” he scolded, obliquely referring to my delicate condition.
“I need to make a living,” I told him flatly. “And I mean to do it right here.
”
I didn’t wait for him to say anything. I picked up a dust rag and began running it over the counter
, my mind sorting through options. We would model the revamp after the retro décor of my grandfather’s time. It would be sleek and simple. With the closing of the diner several years earlier there were no other places to eat along Main Street. I stopped in front of the large front window and began spraying Windex. From there I had a good view of the Maple Street bars, including The Cave. The street played quiet host to a handful of motorcycles but it was Friday. Later on the row would be hopping. It seemed I’d heard one of the clubs kept their house in an old mansion on the outskirts of town.
I didn’t spent the whole day staring up the street waiting for Marco’
s bike to pull up, although thoughts of him struck me at variable times. A handful of customers sifted in and out, local people. At one point the bells on the door jingled and I looked up into a wizened face I recognized as Marco’s friend.
“Hello, Angie,” he said casually as if he were used to seeing me every day.
He nodded to Nancy. “Nan.”
“Hey Captain,”
Nancy hailed with warmth, obviously well acquainted with our tough customer.
Captain hunkered onto a wobbly counter stool as I offered to get him something to drink.
“I’ll take a Coke,” he smiled.
As I put the fizzing
cup in front of him he regarded me thoughtfully. “Marco said his girl was back in town.”
I raised an eyebrow. “His girl? That’s what he said?”
Captain laughed. “That’s what he meant.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Not really.”
Nancy
stood lingered in front of the cosmetics aisle and watched us with interest. I concentrated on stacking Styrofoam cups. “What else did he mean?”
Captain picked up his cup, leaving a bill behind on
the counter. He waved to Nancy and then grinned at me cryptically. “I think,” he said, “you need to do your own translating from here on out.” He looked around casually, his gaze resting for a moment on Anthony Durant’s photo.
“We’re going to get the
lunch counter up and running again,” I said helpfully.
“Hmm,” said Captain. “I like ham sandwiches.” He walked out the door and I noticed how he
still wore his leather jacket even though the August afternoon was hot as blazes.
My father had stepped out of the back. “Who was that?” he asked, squinting.
“That,” Nancy shook her head, “was one of the last of the gentleman.” She picked up a broom and began humming again, preferring to keep her secrets to herself.
As the
summer light grew softer one of the Boyle sisters came traipsing through with a herd of children. But rather than being irritated by their rude noise and judging the worn appearance of their mother, I smiled at Katie Boyle Grant and watched the raucous children with fascination. Their small hands left some sticky fingerprints on the door. I started to wipe it down and my gaze once again lingered on the increasing number of bikes lining Maple Street as the evening descended. And as I watched sunlight glinting off metal handlebars I felt almost hopeful.
***
Nancy took off at 6pm, eager to get home to her dogs. Not five minutes after she left my mother walked in with a big picnic basket. My father carefully faced the ‘Closed’ sign outward and locked the door.
The three of us sat on the floor by the
cash register on a plaid wool blanket and ate carefully made meatball subs.
“We used t
o do this,” I said wistfully, struck by the familiarity of the setting.
“Every Friday night,” confirmed my mother. “Until you kids grew old enough to be embarrassed by the idea.”
I chewed. “I’m not embarrassed now.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw my father place a weathered hand over his wife’s. Their mutual glance spoke volumes. Sometimes it was a lonely feeling being with my parents. I remember thinking that even as a child. As if their connection couldn’t be rivaled by even the bonds of parenthood. I felt lonely now, but for a different reason.
“Have you seen him?” I asked, looking down into my sandwich.
“No,” said Grace. “I thought I heard him pull his bike out of the garage late this afternoon, but that’s all.”
“Oh.” I felt a sudden lurch deep in the pit of my stomach and had to put the sandwich down.
Heavy metal music blasted out of one of the bars.
My father’s voice was gentle. “He must be at The Cave right now, Angela.”