Twilight Child (4 page)

 “You were the
child's mother.”

 “But this was
a son, you see. Charlie's grandson. If it had been a daughter, that would have
been another story.”

 The memory of
her acquiescence confounded her. She had wanted to name the child Sam, after
her own father. “Let's do it for Dad,” Chuck insisted. “He's big on
continuity.” She had never been able to fathom the relationship between men,
especially between fathers and sons. In particular between Charlie and Chuck.
She felt compelled to explain, to bring it up to date.

 “Charlie's
love for Chuck was, well—fierce. I always felt inadequate to it. It was as if
Chuck was always living under this weight of his father's love. Now it seems to
be happening again—Tray.” She shook her head.

 “It must be
tough on a father to lose a son.”

 “And on a son
to lose a father,” she said, surprised at the sudden belligerence of her tone.
“It's all very mysterious.”

 “What is?” He
kissed the back of her neck and stroked her hair.

 “The male
animal,” she said.

 “Not at all,”
he said. “We're rather obvious.”

 When she
turned round and saw him, she caught his meaning. Of course, she thought. But
there was a lot more to it than just that.

 It was dark
when she pulled up to her in-laws' house in Dundalk. They were in the den
watching television. Tray was sitting on Charlie's lap.

 “It's kind of
late,” Charlie said, looking at his watch. “We were really worried, weren't we,
Tray?”

 “It does her
good to get out, Charlie.” Molly said, peering over her half-glasses. “She's
over twenty-one.” She was sitting at the table, the inevitable pile of her
students' papers in front of her, pencil poised over some fifth-grade
composition.

 “Doesn't mean
you stop worrying,” Charlie said. He winked at Frances. “And this little guy is
bushed.”

 “I am not,
Grampa,” Tray said, frowning. His forehead wrinkled over heavy eyelids.

 “Want toothpicks
to keep them up?” Charlie laughed. He smiled at Frances. “We had one heck of a
wonderful day. Saw the most fantastic boats.”

 “Grampa is
going to get me my own sailboat someday. Like he did for Daddy.”

 “He'll have
to earn it, though,” Charlie said. Tray's eyes closed, and he laid his head on
his grandfather's shoulder. “We did have a great day,” Charlie whispered. He
looked at the boy, as if to be sure he was dozing, then raised his eyes to
Frances. She felt she was being inspected.

 “How's Sally?”
Charlie asked. She caught a tiny note of suspicion.

 “Sally?” It
had been a reflexive blunder, and before she could recover, Charlie reacted.

 “You were out
with Sally?”

 “Yes, we had
a wonderful time.” It was too late, of course. The lie, she was certain, was
loose in the room. Molly took off her glasses and looked at her curiously.
Frances focused on the piece of crepe that Charlie wore pinned to his shirt. It
only added to her sudden gloom.

 “Where were
you, Frances?” Charlie asked. She felt a sudden rush of guilt feelings.

 “Now,
Charlie, that is none of your business,” Molly chided gently.

 “I'd like to
meet this Sally,” Charlie said, watching Frances with hurt eyes. He had the
haggard look of the inconsolable. His usually neat pepper-gray hair, once so
well groomed, was shaggy and his long face seemed longer, the lines that framed
his mouth deeper, the circles under his eyes darker.

 “One day you
will, I'm sure,” Frances murmured, the effort to sustain the lie, she knew, a
hollow sham. She detested herself for trying to perpetuate it.

 “Of course we
will,” Molly said, with little conviction.

 “Where does
she live?” Charlie asked. Yet his probe seemed halfhearted, as if he hated the
idea of knowing more.

 “Oh, not
far.” Her pores had opened and perspiration began to slide down her back. She
moved toward Tray and tapped his head. “Come on, little man, it's time to go.”
Tray opened his eyes briefly and closed them again.

 Charlie
embraced the boy and seemed to tighten his grip.

 “Really, Charlie,”
Molly interjected.

 “I was just
curious.” He seemed embarrassed by his own interrogation.

 “I really
should take Tray home,” Frances said.

 “It's not
that I'm prying.”

 “But you
are,” Molly said.

 “A recently
widowed woman stays out the whole night—”

 “Charlie,
please,” Molly snapped. “We have no right to question her. She slept at
Sally's. Didn't you, Frances?”

 Frances
offered a nod, knowing it was meaningless. She was simply not made for lies.

 “I didn't
want to hurt you,” Frances said. She had difficulty getting the words out.

 Charlie
turned toward Molly.

 “You said I
was thinking the worst. Chuck's not even cold, Molly.” Frances heard the whine
of pain.

 “She has
every right—” Molly began.

 “A little
respect. That's all one could ask. A little respect.”

 “I know how
you feel,” Frances said.

 “Bet there
isn't even a Sally.” His dark eyes had moistened.

 “I made that
up,” Frances said bravely. “I'm sorry. Believe me, I understand.”

 “I just
felt”—he paused to gather control, still clutching Tray—“that you owed my son
his honor. At least his honor. Instead of shacking up—”

 “Charlie!”
Molly snapped. Tray opened his eyes listlessly.

 “I don't feel
too good about this, is all.” With some effort, he put Tray off his lap. Still
sleeping, he leaned against his mother. Charlie stood up.

 “You just
couldn't wait,” he said, choking on a sob.

 “There's
nothing to wait for, Charlie,” Molly said. “Chuck's gone. She has her life.”

 “I hadn't
intended to hurt you. Either of you. It just—well—came about,” Frances said.
She wanted to convey the beauty and wonder of it, but they could never
understand.

 “It's a lousy
thing to do,” Charlie said.

 “I'm sorry,
Charlie,” she whispered as he left the room. She took Tray's hand. Molly
followed her out to her car.

 “He doesn't
understand, Frances,” Molly said.

 She was
beginning to resent her defensiveness, her guilt feelings, her dishonesty.

 “I don't know
what he means. I did not dishonor Chuck. Chuck is dead.”

 “It's just
his own idea of right and wrong. Just bear with it, Frances. Please.”

 “But he made
me feel so dirty.”

 “He's just
hurt. He can't focus on anything but Chuck.” She patted Tray's head.

 She got into
the car and strapped Tray in beside her. Nodding good-bye to Molly, she drove
away. Tears of rage and anger gave the streetlights halos. “It
is
my
life,” she cried. Tray stirred, and she patted him back to sleep.

 After she put
Tray to bed, she sat in the tiny living room of her shabby one-bedroom
apartment. She had tried to keep it neat and cheerful, but the curtains had
faded, and Tray's boyish roughhousing had partially torn the curtain rods from
the walls. The material on the couch and chairs was frayed, the rugs were
stained. Paint was peeling off the ceiling. A picture of a sunset that Chuck
had bought on their packaged honeymoon trip to the Poconos was awry. A fouled
nest, she thought, grown cold and dreary with neglect. She felt helpless and
inert in this environment.

 Molly and
Charlie had wanted her to come and live with them after Chuck had died. How
could they know that the offer had become the most potent element of her
anxiety? Once more, she would have to surrender her life. And Tray's. But her
refusal had been tentative, given in the guise of a postponement. “We'll see,”
she had told them, deflecting their gentle arguments and the temptations of
security, especially for Tray. She would not tell them that she had impossible
dreams of making it on her own, of being, at long last, responsible for herself
and her child.

 Flights of
fancy, she thought, scraps of tissue in the wind. Was she merely an easy mark
for flattery and attention? She rebuked herself for the question. Peter had
been totally sincere, offering a generous heart, devotion, sincerity, and
sexual compatibility, an irresistible combination. A blurred picture of Chuck's
corpse, his flesh still warm in his casket beneath the ground, animated by her
betrayal, forcing his arms against the closed lid, made her leap out of her
chair. With her heart pounding, she paced the room, peered out the windows,
double-checked the lock, looked in on Tray sleeping on the cot next to her
empty double bed.

 Maybe Charlie
was right and this punishment of fear was the reward of her whorish act? She
shook her head, hoping the movement would chase the terrible thought from her
mind. I must resist, she begged herself. Help me, Peter, she whispered,
remembering her ecstatic response, the sheer surprise at her body's awakening
as he led her into what had been, until then, uncharted territory. Nature's way
of telling me that I am a woman, she assured herself, grateful for his
attention, his enveloping warmth, his sweet tenderness and consideration. And
Charlie had thrown mud in the face of her joy, glorifying Chuck, who had given
her none.

 She reached
for the phone, looked at the dial, then realized that she did not have Peter's
home number. But as she looked it up in the directory she had second thoughts.
If she called, he would see how terribly vulnerable she really was, would
understand the full extent of her need. Men were mysteries, she told herself.
But he said he was crazy about her, hadn't he? Or was that only an empty
phrase, part of the way men concocted seductions? Had she sent him the signal
of willingness to surrender herself, to give herself away to the first comer?

 And worst of
all, would he lose interest in her by morning? She closed the telephone book
and tossed it aside.

 Miraculously,
he didn't lose interest. In fact, he was more pressing and attentive than was
proper for appearances at work.

 “I'll never
be the same again,” he said. He was forever finding ways to pass her desk and
excuses to chat, and she felt his eyes following her everywhere. When she went
to the ladies' room, he was on her trail.

 “Not in
here,” she had laughed.

 “I don't want
to let you out of my sight.”

 “There's only
one door.”

 “Then I'll
wait.”

 To her
surprise, he did wait and accompanied her back to her desk.

 “People will
talk.”

 “I hope so.”

 At lunch, she
was tempted to tell him about what Charlie had said, but she deliberately left
it alone. No point in wallowing in that, she told herself, although the gloomy
thoughts of last night had left their impression.

 “Did you
think of me?” he asked, holding her hand under the cafeteria table like a high
school kid.

 “Of course.”
She returned his hand's squeeze.

 “Last weekend
was the most important event of my life,” he said. “I tried to analyze it, but
I gave up. Something to do with the attraction of molecules.”

 “Don't try.”

 “You think
you could pencil me in for next weekend?” he asked.

 Charlie's
words rushed back at her. Damn him, she thought. And what about Tray?

 “I'll try.”

 “Just that?”

 “There's
Tray.” She felt the pull of motherly responsibility.

 “Bring him,
too.”

 She looked at
him, wondering if he was sincere.

 “He's five
and very active.”

 “He's yours,
isn't he?”

 “Of course.”
She wondered if she sounded indignant. And Chuck's, she wanted to say, but
didn't.

 “Well, then,”
he said, looking at her anxiously. “Bring him.”

 “Maybe I can
get my in-laws to take him?” No maybes about it, she thought. They would insist
and there was sure to be more trouble with Charlie.

 “Whatever is
best for you, Frances.”

 “It wouldn't
be like last weekend. A small boy wants attention.”

 “Then we'll
give it to him.”

 “Easier said
than done.”

 She watched
his face go through patterns of confusion. He grew hesitant, his eyes searching
hers.

 “The question
is, do you want to be with me this weekend?”

 It was, she
decided, very difficult to explain. And it hurt to see Tray as an obstacle.

 “I'm a widow
with a young child—” she began, knowing as she heard her words that it was the
wrong way to explain it.

 “I know
that,” he said with sudden authority. The love-struck adolescent had popped
back into his turtle shell. “I know he comes with the territory, Frances. I'm
prepared for that. I don't understand the problem. He's yours. What's yours is
important to me. So we'll give him our attention.” He hesitated and swallowed.
“Like a family. I'm not stupid, Frances. If I don't make it with him, I don't
make it with you.”

 She felt a
sob begin deep in her chest and turned away to hide her emotions, lifting a cup
of tepid coffee to her lips. Her hands shook, betraying her, and he helped her
put down the cup. Then he kissed her hands.

 “You don't
understand, darling. I'm in this all the way.”