Stranger, Father, Beloved (18 page)

Michael knew he should kiss her. He would have to kiss her. Her face was turned to the side, and he leaned forward. But she remained lying on her stomach, passively ready to accept. She knew he didn't want to kiss her and wouldn't make him have to do it. He pulled down his pants and underwear and entered her, and a certain misery shook loose and began twisting in him. He knew she wouldn't come this way. She knew it too. Yet she moaned quietly for his benefit. Michael tried to pull out midway, but she pulled on his hip and sent him back in. He felt anger as he was kept thrusting by her hand on his hip. He was close, and he came, in a terrible explosion, pleasurable, abrupt. Having orgasms was deeply embarrassing for him; they always had been. In a moment of climax he felt he was writhing in the sheets like an idiot. He pulled out quickly and lay beside her. She was undoubtedly not feeling anything. The rage came back—why had she forced him to finish? She got nothing from these romps; they were childish and pointless. He looked at her face, which was looking up at the ceiling. She knew not to look at him. It hit him that she enjoyed being used.

This was what they'd come to. A strong urge to hit her seized Michael as she lay there pretending to be in a state of rapture. He wanted to slap her for pretending. Instead he got up from the bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. He could do anything, anything in this marriage, and still she would be there, unmoving, waiting like a boulder.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Full summer had arrived. The days were longer, and everyone ached to be out of doors. Ryan's school year had ended a couple of weeks ago, and she was often absent from the house for days at a time. It seemed more and more that Michael was comfortable only in the presence of John, whom he had befriended. The two of them spent a couple of Saturdays hiking together after Michael learned that it had been John's favorite hobby when he was married.

They drove onto the mainland about forty-five minutes from Orin to a national park, and after parking the car at the trail head and walking the two-mile loop, they stopped in a small family-owned restaurant near the beginning of the trail. For those few hours, Michael was free of his family and in the company of someone who was quiet, good-natured, and actually more intelligent than Michael had initially given him credit for. Breathing the fresh air on their short hike made Michael dizzy with elation. When they clambered down from the woods and entered the restaurant, they were pleased to see that its inside was modest, basic, just as they felt it should be. They were the only customers in the restaurant, so they sat and talked after eating the greasy hamburgers. The waitress brought coffee, although they
had not ordered it, and they both found that very charming because they had in fact both wanted it.

“How often did you and your wife go camping?”

“About once a month for the first year of our marriage. In the summer, we got away almost every weekend. Anne loved the outdoors. She knew more about different types of wild flowers and trees than even I did.”

“You must have loved her a lot,” Michael said and leaned in, giving John his full attention. He felt that at that moment, John was impressed by his concern, even though Michael's intensity seemed to catch him off guard.

“Yes, of course I did,” John replied, looking somewhat bewildered, but then his face softened. “We went on wilderness retreats with our church after our marriage started to fall apart, but in the end it didn't help much.”

“Was it depressing to have to go with a group after all your years of going just the two of you?” Michael asked.

John's lips twisted into a thoughtful position as he considered this. “It was for her, I think. She was always so independent. But I actually loved those group camping trips.”

“It must have been a relief to appear as a couple, because when other people are around, you have to treat each other with the utmost respect. It feels good not to fall into that interpersonal hell that can be created between two people.”

“Yes, it was a comfort, I guess,” John replied and then stared at his hands in silence. The waitress came by with more coffee. Michael feared he was getting too intimate.

“Do they slam the religious stuff down your throat at those retreats?”

“No, it's mostly informal, more to get out and see nature.
Although there are families in crisis there. You know, kids who act out and situations like that. They say the trips help them.”

“Have you noticed how my daughter acts? Have you noticed how out of control she's gotten?”

“I didn't notice that. She does seem kind of sad though, like a loner.”

“Do you think she would benefit from one of those retreats in the woods?”

“I don't know. I've never had kids. I can say that it really helped other families I know.”

“When was the last time you went? A few years ago?”

“Yeah, two or three years ago.”

“Would you consider going again? With me and my family?” The thought was blossoming in Michael's mind, expanding into brighter and brighter technicolor—all of them in the sunshine, shaken out of their gloomy ways by the slap of Mother Nature. That was exactly what they all needed. Joy squeezed at his heart, and he felt that if John turned him down at this moment or laughed at him, he would never recover.

“I can give you the brochure, I would just be tagging along if I came. I wouldn't want to disturb you. Plenty of families go—you would meet a lot of great people.”

“You aren't interested in going with us?”

“Of course I'm interested. I love your family.”

As the conversation continued, Michael convinced him that the family would not be comfortable going without him, that on some level he was proving indispensable to them. John seemed to warm at this, a modest smile playing about his lips and eyes. Michael hadn't felt this content for quite some time. He felt that if he could just depart and lose himself in some random location with John's gentle, honest company, he would be able to make it through his life.

He had been going over Alex's essay when he had free moments, writing his best feedback in the margins of the piece. The act of reviewing his essay had kept Alex much on his mind lately. Alex had shepherded him through his college years, allowing for some happy memories to fill the album of Michael's life. What solace was found in the company of someone like Alex, someone elegant, dignified, yet full of good nature despite all the snobbery his good breeding implied. Shockingly, Alex was the furthest thing from arrogant or snobbish, although Michael somehow always felt he should have been or deserved to be. Michael realized that he had found the same sense of solace with John. When they spent time together, the hours flowed along seamlessly and his companionship did not irritate Michael's mind but allowed for some calm to enter.

That same day, John and Michael drove out to the retreat center, passing run-down sections of Rhode Island with above-ground pools and houses in need of a good painting. Elderly folks sat on the porches as they whizzed by, and off the highway, on the smaller streets, kids stood at the side of the roads, footballs in hand, and waited for their car to pass since their own lawns were too small to play on. They eventually got out to pure wilderness, with occasional houses with old rusted trucks parked in the drive. Michael met the couple in charge of the center, Bill and Joy Dover. They were hefty, ugly people, but they had a shine to them, no doubt the result of a kind of inner peace that he himself had never felt. The center consisted of a scattering of basic yet clean cabins and a small lodge where meals and evening meetings were held. Michael could imagine John and John's wife walking those trails. Then they would fall asleep after pushing the two twin beds together, his arms wrapped around her small frame, listening to the insects moan as they tried to keep their bearings in the wind. Michael was fascinated
by the idea of John clinging to his wife and his marriage while she got more and more distant until she left him for good. Why would any woman want to leave a man like John? He was not the most exciting person on earth, but he was trustworthy, available, kind, and handsome in a rudimentary way. Wasn't that what women wanted?

The cabins were sparsely decorated, but what decorations did line the walls reminded Michael of Nancy. One was a wooden board, painted to show smiling faces framing the words “Home Sweet Home.” For once Nancy would not feel oppressed by all the fanciness of his world but would be surrounded by what she loved. If John's wife had been around, Michael knew there was no doubt she would have liked Nancy. They were both religious and simple-minded—basic, good people. They were all good in a way he felt he could never be, and he was beginning to envy their easy ways and straightforward desires. His own desires were intangible, located in a realm that was constantly out of reach.

Michael was quickly learning that this was the very thing that had made him fail as a parent. To be unable to get strength from what surrounded him was a failing that weakened both himself and his offspring. If only he could have started over.

He put down a deposit for a weekend three weeks away at the start of August, and he and John went on their way. As they were driving back, Michael asked if he could finally see where John lived.

“Can we stop by? I'd like to see your place.”

“It's nothing compared to your house. It's about the size of your garage. And I haven't cleaned yet. I was going to do that later today.”

“That doesn't matter. Believe me, if I were still a bachelor, I'd keep my place messy. The only reason our place is clean is because of the ladies. My natural tendency is to keep things out of order.” That wasn't even true, but he enjoyed saying it.

They pulled up to the house, which stood on a plot of grass about a hundred yards from the other houses nearby. It wasn't quite a house but resembled a hybrid of a house and a trailer. It was white, one level, and rested a little unevenly on the soil below it, so that the right side seemed a little higher than the left. Flower beds surrounded it, a cheery ring of purple, red, and yellow flowers. A flaglike banner waved in front of the door, depicting cartoonlike flowers, a cottage nestled in their midst.

The inside of the place was quite different from the happy exterior; it was poorly lit and consisted of only two rooms, in addition to the eat-in kitchen and the bathroom. Michael was a little shocked when he first saw it, but the feeling quickly began to wear off. The two couches in the living room were a drab color, somewhere between olive green and beige, and the material was shabby, worn-out corduroy. The bedroom door was open, revealing a small bed next to a dresser, with a gold cross on the wall. An old green carpet covered the entire inside of the “house.” A couple of dishes sat in the sink.

John was clearly embarrassed by his place and sat down in a resigned, uncomfortable posture. He offered Michael a beer from the fridge, and soon they settled into drinking. They talked about the plans for the tree house John was going to build for Max.

“We should put it on the edge of the yard in that big sycamore tree. You know, I've been meaning to take a week off of work for a while now. I could help you build it,” Michael offered.

They were on their third beers when the light had almost completely faded outside the window. John's back was slouched into the couch opposite Michael. His face bore no expression as he stared out his window. It was the first time Michael had ever seen him completely at ease. The fuzziness of the alcohol gave a soft quality to the objects in the room.

“I should turn on that lamp to get some light in here,” John mused, but he didn't get up. “Shouldn't you be getting back to your family?”

“They don't need me. I hardly even exist there. It's like I'm living there, but I'm not really there. It's like I go to my office, but nothing really needs to get done that's that important. I feel I'm disappearing. . . .”

“Now come on, that's bull, man.” John looked indignant, and it occurred to Michael that the man had no idea how bad his family life was, that he had a completely false conception of how their house functioned. That seemed to be a good and safe thing.

“Yeah, you're right. I just feel sometimes like things are so solid, like they have a will of their own, and I could just as easily not be there, and the machine would keep on turning. You know what I mean?”

John smiled. “No.” They both laughed and took sips of their beers.

Michael realized that John and his wife must have had many good nights together in this place. Cramped though it was, it was enveloping, stabilizing, and close to nature. Michael wondered if he could drink enough so that he would be allowed to stay the night and not have to drive back to his hell. He got to his feet and made his way over to the fridge. There were only three beers left—that was borderline. It was probably not enough to get him fully drunk. He took another and gave one to John, thinking if he offered it it would give John the chance to say no.

There was a long silence, and then John said, “You're lucky to be living on the Peninsula.”

“We moved there when Ryan was only five going on six.” Michael thought of what else he could say about it. “That summer there was a hurricane, and she and her friend Carol ran out on the yard with umbrellas and were lifted up off the ground. It was so windy they seemed like they were flying for a second.”

“Weren't you worried they'd be snatched away?”

“It wasn't that bad of a storm; mainly just the wind and fast-moving clouds. They were only lifted about one or two feet off the ground.” Michael felt foolish after saying it, as if he were a neglectful father. Here he was sitting in John's living room on a Saturday evening, drinking, talking about flying kids in hurricanes, with no plans of returning home to his family.

“Why didn't you and your wife have kids?”

“We were only married for a couple of years. Anne was different, anyway.”

“Different how?”

“She wasn't a normal type of woman. She hated cooking and cleaning, and while she did like children, she liked
other
people's children. Sometimes I felt she was the man and I was the woman.”

John pressed his fingers a little tighter around the can, causing the aluminum to make a little cracking sound. Michael looked into his face to see if he was in a state of anger or frustration but found only a detached melancholy there instead.

“She was raised around boys—I think that's where the problem started. She was a tomboy, a mismatch.”

Michael couldn't really envision what this woman had been like, but he liked knowing that another pair had been through this. He let his mind drift back through a series of corridors. It was windy outside, and now the darkness was complete. John got up, switched on a lamp that sat on a table across the room, and went into the kitchen. Michael knew this was it. He would have to leave shortly.

Then miraculously, John said, “This house is depressing. I know a bar near here. Do you want to get out of here?”