Bygones

  “Here . . . sit down.”

  He sat.

  “What's wrong?”

  He slouched back in the chair, crossed an ankle over a knee and poked at the blue rubber edge of his Reebok.

  “I just saw Dad.”

  “Oh . . .” Her eyebrows arched. The word escaped her in an extended syllable as she, too, sat back in her chair, studying Randy. Her forearms rested along the worn wooden arms and in one hand she held a yellow pencil with her thumb folded over the red eraser. “Where?”

  “We tried on tuxedos together.”

  “Did you talk?”

  Randy spit on one finger and rubbed some dirt off the edge of his shoe sole. “Not really.” He rubbed some more. “He wanted to buy me lunch but I said no.”

  “Why?”

  Randy forgot his shoe and looked up. “Why! Shit, Mom, you know why!”

  “No I don't. Tell me. If you said no and it's bothering you so much, why didn't you go with him?”

  “Because I hate him.”

  “Do you?”

  Their eyes locked in silence.

  “Why should I go with him?”

  “Because it's the adult thing to do. It's how relationships are handled, it's how wrongs are righted, and because I think you want to. But after six years it takes a little swallowing of pride, and that's hard.”

  Randy's anger flared. “Yeah, well, why should I swallow my pride when I never did anything to him. He's the one who did it to me!”

  “Hold your voice down, Randy,” she said calmly. “There are customers downstairs.”

  Randy whispered, “He walked out on me, I didn't walk out on him!”

  “You're wrong, Randy. He walked out on me, not on you.”

  “It's the same thing, isn't it?”

  “No, it's not. It hurt him very much to leave you and Lisa. He made many efforts to see you over the years but I made sure that didn't happen.”

  “But—”

  “And in all these years I wonder if you've ever asked yourself why he walked out on me.”

  “What do you mean why? For Darla.”

  “Darla was the symptom, not the disease.”

  Disgusted, Randy said, “Aw, come on, Mom, who put that idea in your head? Him?”

  “I've had a long examination of conscience lately, and I've discovered that your dad wasn't the only one at fault in the divorce. We were very much in love once, you know. When we were first married, when we had you kids—why, there was no family that was happier. Do you remember those times?”

  Randy was sitting the way losers sit on the sidelines during the last thirty seconds of a championship basketball game. He stared at the floor between his Reeboks and made no reply.

  “Do you remember exactly when it started to change?”

  Randy said nothing.

  “Do you?” she repeated softly.

  He lifted his head. “No.”

  “It started when I went back to college. And do you know why?”

  Randy waited, looking disconsolate, studying his mother.

  “Because I didn't have time for your dad anymore. I came home at the end of the day and there was a family to take care of and housework to do, besides studying, and I was so set on doing it all that I let the most important thing go—my relationship with your dad. I'd get upset with him because he wouldn't help me around the house, and, yes, he was at fault for that but I never asked him nicely, we never sat down and talked about it. Instead, I made cutting remarks occasionally, and the rest of the time I zoomed around the house with my mouth tight, feeling like a martyr. Then it became a bone of contention between us. He refused to help me and I refused to ask him to, and pretty soon it was left up to you kids, and you weren't old enough to do it well, so most of the time things were in a mess. Now, if all that was going on in the rest of the house, what do you think was going on in the bedroom?”

  Randy only stared at his mother.

  “Nothing. And when nothing goes on in the bedroom it sounds the death knell to a relationship between a man and a wife. And that was my fault, not your dad's. . . . That's why he found Darla.”

  Randy's cheeks grew pink. Bess tipped her chair forward and rested her elbows on her lap.

  “You're old enough to hear this, Randy. You're old enough to learn from it. Someday you'll be married, and at first it'll be a bed of roses, and then the humdrum starts in and you forget to do the small things that made that person fall in love with you in the first place. You stop saying good morning, and picking up his shoes when he forgets to take them to his closet, and bringing home the one special kind of Dairy Queen he likes. After all, it's out of your way and you're in a hurry. When he says, Do you want to take a bike ride after supper? you say no because you've had a rough day, so he goes alone and you don't stop to realize that if you'd gone with him it would have made your day a little better. And when he takes a shower before bed, you roll over and pretend to be asleep already because, believe it or not, you begin to consider sex work. You stop doing these things, and then the other one stops doing them, and pretty soon you're substituting criticism for praise, and giving orders instead of making requests, and letting sex fall by the wayside, and in no time at all the whole marriage falls apart.”

  A long silence passed before Bess sat back in her chair and went on ruminating quietly.

  “I remember once, just before we broke up, your dad said to me, We never laugh anymore, Bess. And I realized it was true. You've got to keep laughing, no matter how hard times seem to be. It's what gets you through, and if you really stop to analyze it, one person trying to make another one laugh is a way of showing love, isn't it? It says, I care about you. I want to see you happy. Your dad was right. We had stopped laughing.”

  Bess set her chair in motion. The spring beneath the seat made a tick with each slight undulation while Randy studied her crossed legs. From downstairs came the tt-tt-tt-tt of Heather closing out the cash register for the day; then she turned on the lamps in the front window and called, “I'm going now. I'll lock the front door on my way out.”

  “Thanks, Heather. Have a nice weekend.”

  “You, too. 'Bye, Randy.”

  “ 'Bye, Heather,” he called.

  When she was gone, the sense of intimacy doubled with all quiet below, and the overhead lights darkened. Only the dim light from Bess's desk lamp spread a brandy-colored glow on her abandoned work. She went on speaking in the same quiet tone as before. “I had a talk with Grandma Dorner a while back. It was after I saw your dad at Lisa's. I asked her to tell me, after all these years, why she'd never taken my side during the divorce. She verified all these things I've just told you and more.”

  Randy met his mother's eyes again as her tone took on sudden passion. Once more she leaned toward him earnestly.

  “Listen to me, Randy. I've spent six years telling you all the reasons you should blame your dad, and now I've spent a few minutes telling you why you should blame me. But the truth is, you shouldn't blame anyone. Your dad and I both had a part in the breakup of our marriage. Each of us made mistakes. Each of us got hurt some. Each of us retaliated. You got hurt, too, and you retaliated. . . .” She took his hand. “I understand that . . . but it's time to reassess, dear.”

  He fixed his eyes on their joined hands, rubbing his thumb over hers. He appeared sheer miserable. “I don't know, Mom.”

  “If I can, you can.” She squeezed his hand in encouragement.

  He remained passive, disconsolate, answering nothing.

  After some time, Bess swiveled toward her desk and began clustering her work, though she had little spirit for it. She scooped together a few papers, then swung back to Randy.

  “You get to look more like him every day. It really does things to my insides sometimes when I turn and catch a glimpse of you standing the way he used to, or grinning the way he used to.” She reached out and took both his hands loosely, turning them palms up within her own. “You got his hands,” she said. “And his eyes.” She lo
oked into them and let a moment of silence pass before smiling gently. “Try as you might to deny you're his, you can't. And that's what hurts most, isn't it, honey?”

  He made no reply but the expression in his eyes told her this day had made a deep impression on him.

  “Well!” With forced brightness she sat back and checked her watch. “It's getting late and I have a little more work to do here while it's quiet.”

  “You going home then?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “What's so important that it keeps you here on a Saturday night?”

  “Actually, it's some work for your dad. I'm doing the interior design work for his new condo.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “I went to see it this week.”

  “Are you two getting back together or something?”

  “No, we're not getting back together. He hired me to decorate his place, is all.”

  “Do you want to get back together?”

  “No, but it feels better treating him civilly than it did being enemies. There's something about being hateful that deteriorates a person. Well, listen, honey, I really should get back to work, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. . . .” Randy rose and went down one step so he could stand erect. He turned back to his mother. “I'll see you at home, then. You fixing supper when you get there?”

  A shaft of guilt struck Bess deep. “I'm afraid not. I have a date with Keith.”

  “Oh . . . well . . .”

  “If I'd known you wanted to, I would have—”

  “No, no . . . hell, I'm no baby. I can find supper by myself.”

  “What will you do tonight, then?”

  “I'll probably go up to Popeye's. There's a new band playing there.”

  “See you at home in an hour or so.”

  When Randy was gone Bess turned back to her graph paper but sat staring at it with the pencil idle in her hands. Tonight was one of those rare nights when Randy truly wanted to be with her, and she felt devastated for having turned him down. But how was a mother to know? He was nineteen, she forty. They lived in the same house but went their separate ways. Most Saturday nights he wouldn't have stayed home if she'd cooked a five-course meal.

  But all the commonsense self-rebuttal in the world would not assuage her guilt. A thought came to accompany it, to add weight to the burden she already carried: if Michael and I had never divorced, we'd be there together on nights like this when Randy needs us. If we had never divorced, he wouldn't be going through this pain in the first place.

  * * *

  On the street a short distance from the Blue Iris, Randy slammed his car door, started the engine and sat staring at the windshield while it collected his breath and turned it to frost. The streets of Stillwater were deserted, the ice along the curbs was too dirty and pitted to reflect the red stoplights. Dark had fallen. By 6:30 the streets would be strung with cars as diners came out to enjoy the restaurants, but now at the close of the business day the whole town looked like the aftermath of a nuclear power leak—not a moving soul about. A semi lumbered up Main Street from the south. He could hear it coming, downshifting, rumbling. He watched it appear at the corner ahead and make a right-hand turn toward the lift bridge, heading east into Wisconsin.

  He didn't want to go home.

  He didn't want to go to Bernie's.

  He didn't want to be with any girls.

  He didn't want any fast food.

  He decided to drive over to Grandma Dorner's. She was always cheery, and there was always something to eat over there, plus he liked her new place.

  Stella Dorner answered his knock and swept him into her arms for a hug. “Well, Randy Curran, you handsome thing, what are you doing here on a Saturday night?”

  She smelled like ritzy perfume when he hugged her. Her hair was combed fluffy and she had on a fancy blue dress. “Just came to see my best girl.” When he released her she laughed and lifted her hands to her left ear to fit it with a pierced earring.

  “You're a doggone liar but I love it.” She turned a circle and her skirt flared. “There, how do I look?”

  “You're a killer, Gram.”

  “I hope he thinks so. I've got a date.”

  “A date!”

  “And he's darned good-looking, too. He's got all his hair, all his teeth and his gallbladder! A darned nice set of pecs, too, if I do say so myself.”

  Randy laughed.

  “I met him at my exercise class. He's taking me dancing to the Bel Rae Ballroom.”

  Randy scooped her close and executed an Arthur Murray-style turn. “Stand him up and go with me instead.”

  She laughed and pushed him away. “Go find your own girlfriend. Have you got one, by the way?”

  “Mmm . . . got my eye on one.”

  “What's the matter with her?” She gave his arm a love pat as she swung away, crescendoing as she walked toward her bedroom. “So how's everything with you?”

  “Fine,” he called, ambling into the living room. There were lights on all over the condo, with music playing on a component set and a painting on an easel by the sliding glass doors.

  “I hear you're going to be in a wedding,” Stella called from the far end of the place.

  “How about that.”

  “And I also hear you're going to be an uncle.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “Do I look like a great-grandma to you?”

  “Are you kidding? Hey, Gram, did you paint these violets?”

  “Yes, how do you like them?”

  “Jeez, they're good, Gram! I didn't know you could paint!”

  “Neither did I! It's fun.” The lights went off in the far bedroom, the bathroom, the hall, and Stella breezed into the living room, wearing a necklace that matched her earrings. “Did you find a band to play with yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you trying?”

  “Well . . . not lately.”

  “How do you expect to find a band if you don't keep trying?” The doorbell rang and Stella said, “Oh, there he is!” She skipped once on her way to answer. Randy followed, feeling like the old one there.

  The man who came in had wavy silver hair, shaggy eyebrows, a firm chin and a nice cut on his suit. His pecs didn't look too bad, either.

  “Gil,” she said. “This is my grandson, Randy. He just dropped in to say hello. Randy, this is Gilbert Harwood.” The two shook hands, and Gil's grip was hearty. They made small talk but Randy could see the pair was eager to be going.

  Minutes later he found himself back in his car, watching his grandma drive off with her date. Hungrier. Lonelier.

  He headed back down McKusick Lane to the stop sign at Owens Street, where he sat observing the collection of cars around The Harbor across the street. He parked and went into the crowded beer joint, slid onto a bar stool and ordered a glass of tap beer. The place was smoky and smelled like the grill was in use. The customers were potbellied, gruff-voiced and had a lot of broken capillaries in their faces.

  The guy beside Randy wore a Minnesota Twins billcap, blue jeans and an underwear shirt beneath a soiled, quilted vest. His forearms rested on the bar while he turned his head and glanced at Randy from beneath puffy eyelids. “How's it goin'?” he said.

  “Good . . . good,” Randy replied and took a swig from his glass.

  They sat with their elbows two inches apart, sipping beer, listening to Randy Travis sing a two-year-old song on the jukebox, and the sizzle of cold meat hitting a hot grill in the kitchen, and occasional loud bursts of laughter. Somebody came in and the cold air momentarily chilled the backs of their legs before the door thumped closed. Randy watched eight faces above eight bar stools turn and check out the new arrivals before returning indifferently to their beers. He finished his own, got off the stool, fished a quarter from his pocket and used the pay phone to dial Lisa's number.

  Her voice sounded hurried when she answered.

  “Hey, Lisa, it's Randy. You busy?”

>   “Yeah, sort of. Mark is here and we're making spanakopita to take to an all-Greek supper over at some friends' of ours. We're in butter and filo to our elbows!”

  “Oh, well, listen, it's no big deal. I was just gonna see if you wanted to watch a video or something. Thought I could pick one up and come over.”

  “Gosh, Rand, sorry. Not tonight. Tomorrow night, though. I'll be around then.”

  “Yeah, well maybe I'll stop over then. Listen, have a good time tonight and say hi to Mark.”

  “Will do. Call me tomorrow, then.”

  “Yeah, sure. 'Bye.”

  Back in his car, Randy started the engine, turned on the radio and sat awhile with his hands hanging loosely on the wheel. He hiccuped once, then belched and studied the lights of the houses on either side of the Owens Street hill. What were they all doing in there? Little kids having supper with their folks. Young married couples having supper with each other. What would Maryann Padgett say if he called her up and asked her out? Hell, he didn't have enough money to take her anyplace decent. He'd spent that sixty bucks on pot earlier this week, and his gas tank was nearly empty, and the payment on his drum set was due, and payday wasn't until next Friday.

  Shit.

  He rested his forehead on the wheel. It was icy and brought a sharp stab of cold that concentrated in the back of his neck.

  He lifted his head and pictured his dad's reflection in the mirror today beside his own while they'd zipped up their flies and experimented with tying bow ties. He wondered where they'd have gone if he'd said yes to lunch, what they'd have talked about, if they'd be together now.

  He checked his watch. Not even seven yet. His mother would still be home, getting ready for her date with Keith, and he'd just be in their way if he got there before they left; and his mother would get that guilty look on her face for leaving him after he'd opened his big mouth at the store and asked if she was making supper.

  Everybody had somebody. Everybody but him.

  He reached into his pocket, found his bat and the Ziploc bag of marijuana and decided, To hell with it all.

  Chapter 8

  BESS AND KEITH ATE AT LIDO'S at a table beneath a potted tree trimmed with miniature lights. The minestrone was thick and spicy, the pasta homemade and the chicken parmigiana exquisite. When their plates had been removed they sat over wine and spumoni.