Authors: Karen Harter
“Kirsten.” She had gained some weight since high school but looked great. “Wow. I thought everyone I knew had moved away!”
“I thought
you
moved away.” She sat down next to me on the bench. “Who’s this?” She leaned forward to get a better look at TJ. “Is this
your son?” TJ stared at her blankly.
“Yup. Hey, Teej. This is an old friend of mine. Her name is Kirsten.”
“I have a boy about your age. What are you, about four?” TJ held up five fingers. She motioned to someone behind her. “Alex!
Come on down here!” A chubby blond boy obediently scrambled down the bleachers. The boys eyed each other cautiously at first
while Kirsten and I made the initial small talk. When Alex rolled a tiny truck toward TJ on the row behind us and my son rolled
it back, a transaction was made. The friendship duly consummated, the two went to play on the vacant seats above.
“So who’d you come with? Is your husband playing?”
It was at moments like these that I was reminded how raveled my life really was. I had come with that virile quarterback on
the tavern team. Yes, my husband was playing. He was that strapping tight end (the loose end in my life) playing for the church
team. And my son’s coloring didn’t match either of them. “Yes, he’s out there somewhere,” I answered. “Hasn’t this been a
beautiful fall? I can’t believe it’s late October and we’re out here without jackets. So what have you been up to, Kirsten?
Are you working?”
“Yes, part-time at the library. Andy—that’s him right there”—she pointed at a jovial-looking guy near the sideline—“he manages
the meat department at Safeway.” I could tell he was on Tim’s team because he wore a shirt.
“So you must go to the Set Free Church. Do you have a Harley?”
Kirsten laughed. “No. We’re not all bikers. But the pastor is. We love him, as weird as he is.”
“Do you know Sarah . . .” I realized I had already forgotten her new name. “She just got married. Used to be Sarah Weatherbee?”
Kirsten nodded. “Of course. She married the pastor’s son. That’s her brother right there.” She pointed at Tim as he wiped
sweat off his face with his bandana flag and then stuffed it back into his rear pocket, poised for the next play. “Tim Weatherbee.
He got recruited to fill in for Ross, since he and Sarah are still on their honeymoon. He was one year ahead of us—” She stopped
herself. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you go out with him?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Sort of.”
“So which one is your husband out there?”
I caught myself biting a nail. “Um, well, it’s Tim.”
This seemed to concern Kirsten. She raised her eyebrows and got real quiet on me. “Oh” was all she said.
Just then the crowd became noisy again. We both diverted our eyes to the play in progress. She had to have known that Tim
was in town alone. Maybe he was going to their church. Why had she reacted like that? Did she know something about Tim that
I didn’t know? The Set Free quarterback scored a touchdown. More cheers rang out from the stands. Frankly, I didn’t know who
to cheer for. My heart was split at the fifty-yard line.
Kirsten and I chatted off and on as the game progressed. To her credit, she didn’t pry. In fact, she seemed to sense my discomfort
with the whole topic of Tim and avoided it altogether. She told me about Alex’s preschool program and caught me up on the
lives of some of our mutual friends and acquaintances. The Set Free team won with a final score of twenty-four to eighteen.
Kirsten and I exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch. It would be fun to get together sometime, especially
since our sons had hit it off so well.
The men on the field dispersed slowly, still chiding and challenging one another. TJ ran onto the field toward Donnie, who
was caught up in a conversation with one of the players. Tim’s sweatshirt remained where he had tossed it. I sat and waited
on the bench. I could see him joking with some guy. Finally, Tim sauntered my way, still grinning—until he saw me. He almost
stopped dead in his tracks but then recovered. He strolled up to the bleachers, plucked his sweatshirt from the bench and
used it to wipe his face. “Hello, Sam.” The front of his T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
“Hi.” I smiled. “Good game. You looked really good out there.”
“Thanks.” He glanced around. “You here alone?”
“No. I came with a friend.” I didn’t mention TJ. Things were awkward enough as it was. He stepped toward me then, tentatively.
I stood. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again. I’ve missed you.”
His eyes grew soft and familiar. “Yeah.” His head dropped momentarily. “Me too.” A silence fell between us. I wanted to touch
him, but I couldn’t move. “You were quite a hit at the wedding,” he said eventually. “They’re still talking about it.”
I smiled impishly. “I think your friend really wanted that bouquet,” I said. “She didn’t like me one bit.”
“Luanne? No, she liked you even less when she found out you were my ex-wife.”
“Ex?”
“Well, you know what I mean.” There was a lot going on in the space between us—a flurry of positive and negative ions, it
seemed, that made it hard to talk except with our eyes. One thing was certain. He still cared for me. “So, what are you doing
now?” he asked. “Working somewhere?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t found anything yet. Actually, it feels pretty good to have a break from working. I get to spend
more time with TJ.” I immediately saw the glimmer in his eyes disconnect. “That’s my son.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I know.”
As if on cue, TJ appeared at my side. “Let’s go, Mom.”
Tim began to back up. “Well, see you around, Sam.” He turned just as Donnie approached. “Hey, Don. Good game.”
Donnie still had his shirt off and used it like a towel to dry his chest. He grabbed the water bottle from my hand, tipped
his head back and squirted the remaining liquid down his throat. “Yeah, it was. It felt good.” They didn’t shake hands or
pat each other’s backs. Instead, Donnie placed his arm around my shoulder and began to guide me away as if he was a dog marking
his territory. “We should do it again sometime.”
I was so angry with Donnie I hardly spoke on the way home. I resented him showing up when he did and even more so that he
drank from my water bottle—like we were intimate enough to be sharing each other’s saliva. He had made a blatant and intentional
statement. My mind replayed the conversation with Tim, his every expression and mannerism, trying to translate them into what
he really felt. He had missed me. That much he had said. Did he still love me? Could he forgive me for what I did?
When we pulled up in front of my parents’ log house, TJ scrambled over me and jumped out, but Donnie reached for my arm and
pulled me back onto the seat. “Shut the door. We need to talk.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“You know very well. Quit avoiding the issue. You’re mad at me; that’s as plain as stripes on a skunk.”
“You deliberately ran him off.”
“What did you want me to do? Invite him home for dinner?”
“How about just letting us finish our conversation in private?”
“TJ was there. How private could that be? I figured you were done. It was time to go.”
“Oh, and you have some big appointment you have to get to at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon?”
He opened his mouth to say something but must have thought better of it. His jaw went tight and he gripped the steering wheel,
staring straight ahead. I looked out my side window at the poplar trees along the drive until he spoke again. “So, what did
he say?”
“Nothing really. There wasn’t enough time.”
“Are you two going to patch this thing up? Does he want to get back together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is that what
you
want?”
Something in his voice made me turn to look at him. His eyes were still fixed straight ahead at the trees beyond the house.
Tears came to my eyes and my voice softened. “Donnie, it’s all I’ve thought about for five years. And now it seems like maybe
it’s meant to happen. We’re both back here in the valley. I keep thinking maybe we could start over if he can forgive me for
what I did. I need him to forgive me. Do you understand that? It’s like I’ve been walking around with an open wound all this
time.”
“What if he can’t forgive you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I couldn’t bear to think about that. All I knew was that for one brief moment I had seen
a familiar softness in my husband’s eyes. Then he blinked and it was gone.
W
ITH EACH DAY that went by my hopes of Tim showing up at the front door diminished. We had both felt the pull as we stood there
by the bleachers at the football game; I was sure of it. I busied myself with the things I could do—reading, peeling potatoes
for dinner, even working the crossword puzzle from the daily newspaper—but my restless soul was not easily stilled.
My mind had too much free time, and it kept replaying the desperation I had heard in my father’s voice the previous week when
he argued with Matt. My father always seemed sinless to me, as naive as that may sound, so I was shocked at the bits and pieces
of conversation I had overheard. Whatever he proposed had infuriated his friend. I wondered if he was in financial trouble
of some sort; something Mom didn’t know about—at least when she committed them to paying my medical bills. Maybe he had made
a bold investment that was supposed to be a sure windfall—and lost everything. Maybe he borrowed money that he couldn’t pay
back. From racketeers? Whatever it was, Matthew seemed shocked and disappointed at the Judge’s plea to help him do something
illegal, and I must admit, I was as well. But I was left in the dark with my imagination still racing in circles, bumping
into walls.
I asked my mother about it one day as she was painting. The walls of her studio out in the detached garage were adorned with
her completed works of art. She liked to do cows, which were flat, lifeless shapes on muddy backgrounds. The landscapes were
a little better, but not much. Her forehead drew together and she pondered for a moment. “No, honey. I can’t think of any
trouble your father could possibly be in. He would tell me if there was something wrong.” She was dabbing green leaves onto
a canvas with a fine-pointed brush. “Are you sure you heard them clearly?”
“I heard the parts with yelling. Matt said it was illegal to do whatever the Judge was talking about. Then Matt stormed off
and went down to the river. It was a couple of hours later, when you were home, that he came back. You made him change into
some dry pants and sit down to dinner. Remember how quiet both Matt and the Judge were at dinner that night?”
Mom frowned. “When are you going to stop calling him that, Samantha? He’s your father, for heaven’s sake.”
She put her paintbrush down, wiped green paint from her hands, and went to the window on the rear wall of her garage studio,
where she stood silently looking out at the fine, almost invisible rain and the river. Frosted-blond strands had escaped from
her French roll, dangling at her cheeks. Her blue bib apron had pockets for brushes and palette knives, and the khaki painting
pants she wore had permanent smudges of yellow ocher. She turned to look at me. “Whatever the problem is, your father will
make the right decision,” she said. Her smile seemed sort of sad, but her eyes were like the smooth gray pebbles washed with
light at the edge of the stream. I couldn’t read them clearly. I thought I saw faith there. She trusted my father. And yet
another ripple passed and there was fear, or maybe sorrow. Did she know something about this or not?
That evening the Judge popped his head into my room and announced that he and Mom were going for a little drive. He acted
jovial, but I felt it was just that. An act. He put his fishing cap on TJ and told him to “man the fort” while Mom stood by
the doorway, quietly pulling on her leather gloves. “Got your pager on, Sam?” Usually it was Mom who asked that.
I tipped my head toward the bedside table. “It’s right there.”
“Please clip it on. If you go out to the kitchen, you won’t be able to hear it. I’ll have my cell phone on if you need us
for anything.” He winked at me and saluted TJ and within minutes the Mercedes crunched down the gravel drive and out of sight.
TJ went back to watching his cartoon video on the TV in my room. I had seen that immigrant mouse get shipwrecked a hundred
times, and when he started singing “There Are No Cats in America,” I went out to the living room to read.
I turned on a lamp and settled into my usual reclining chair. My paperback novel was buried under a pile of magazines, which
was just happenstance and had nothing to do with the fact that the Judge disapproved of “that sort of smut.” I pulled it open
and immersed myself in the ever-thickening plot. The wind had been picking up all evening. I heard it thrashing the bushes
at the side of the house while I read. Right at the part where the heroine crawled stealthily into the dark old house through
the cellar door, something crashed on our front porch. The book dropped to my knees. I always felt things first in the chest.
A little startle was a boxer’s jab with ensuing ripples that ran down my arms like rivulets of water. I stood and strained
to see the old maple tree through a side window. Its ghostly limbs flailed wildly against the night sky. A branch must have
been torn loose and hurled against the house. I opened the front door just a crack as the wind picked up some leafy debris,
scudding it across the porch. Just a branch, I assured myself, and then locked and dead-bolted the door. I went in to check
on TJ. The TV screen was fuzzy and he was sound asleep. This was not good. In my condition I couldn’t carry him to his room,
which meant we would be sharing the double bed, and TJ slept as wildly as he played. I tried to remember when he last went
to the bathroom. Waking him to pee was useless, like dragging a life-size rag doll with lead shoes to the toilet. I pulled
him up and under the covers and hoped for a dry bed in the morning.
I tried to read again. Mom and the Judge had been gone for almost two hours. I figured they were talking about something important
and private. Too private to discuss in the Judge’s study. What was going on? I found myself reading the same page over again
because my mind had not been connected as my eyes traveled across the print. Why did this bother me as much as it did? I plopped
the book down and rested my head on the back of the chair. Because, I finally reasoned, if my father was crooked in any way,
if he did not live by his own creed, then he was a liar. Maybe there was no absolute truth. Maybe I had measured my life by
a standard that was not real. Since I had always failed to measure up, this revelation should have been a great relief. Instead,
I found myself grieving. There used to be a fence around the edge of my world, but it was gone. I felt myself falling, spinning
like a brown leaf into the emptiness beyond.