Bygones

  “As much as you want, sir.”

  “Then keep driving till I tell you to head back to Stillwater. Drive to Hudson! Drive to Eau Claire! Hell, drive to Chicago if you want to!”

  “Whatever you say, sir.” The driver laughed and faced full front again.

  “Now where were we?” Michael settled back and reclaimed Bess, nestling her close.

  “You were drunk and being foolish.”

  “Oh, that's right.” He threw up his arms and started singing a chorus of “Good Lovin',” adding a few hip thrusts for good measure.

  “. . . gimme that good, good lovin' . . .”

  She tried to pull away but he was too quick. “Oh no you don't. You're staying right here. We gotta talk about this now.”

  “Talk about what?” She couldn't resist smiling.

  “This. Our firstborn, all married up and off someplace to spend her wedding night, and you and me only months away from becoming grandparents, dancin' our butts off while our secondborn plays the drums. I think there's some significance here.”

  “You do?”

  “I think so but I haven't figured it out yet.”

  She settled beneath his arm and decided to enjoy being there. He kept on singing “Good Lovin' ” very softly, mumbling the words so they barely moved his lips. Pretty soon she was mumbling softly in counterpoint.

  He'd mumble, “Good lovin' . . .”

  And she'd mumble, “Gimme that mmm-mmm-mmm . . .”

  “Good lovin' . . .”

  “Mm-mm-mm mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

  “Mm-mmm . . .”

  “Mm-mm mm-mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

  He tapped out the drum rhythm on his left thigh and her right arm, then found her free hand and fit his fingers between hers, closed them and bent their elbows in lazy unison. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her jaw, could hear his humming resonate beneath her ear, could smell the diluted remnants of his cologne mingled with smoke on his jacket.

  So quietly the sound of her own breathing nearly covered it up, he sang: “Good lovin' . . .”

  “Mm-mm-mm mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

  Then nothing. Only the two of them, reclining on his half of the seat, holding hands and fitting their thumbs together and feeling and smelling one another while their arms wagged slowly down and up, and down and up . . .

  He didn't say a word, just leaned forward, curled his hand around her far arm and kissed her. Her lips opened and his tongue came inside while she thought of the dozens of arguments she ought to voice. Instead she kissed him back, the leather seat soft against her head, his breath warm against her cheek, his taste as familiar as that of chocolate, or strawberry, or any of the flavors she had relished often in her life. And, my, it felt good. It was the familiarity of that first step on the dance floor magnified a thousandfold. It was each of them fitting into the right niche, melding to the right place, tasting the right way.

  They kept it friendly, passionless almost, engaging themselves solely in the pleasure one mouth can give another.

  When he drew away she kept her eyes closed, murmuring, “Mmm . . .”

  He studied her face for a long moment, then reclined, removing his arm from around her, though she remained snug against his side with her cheek on his sleeve. They rode along in silence, thinking about what they'd just done, neither of them surprised it had happened, only wondering what it portended. Michael reached over and touched a button, lowering his window a couple of inches. The cool night air whisked in, scented by fertile fields and moisture. It threaded across their hair, their lips, bringing a near taste of thawing earth.

  Bess interrupted their idyll as if rebutting thoughts they'd both been having. “The trouble is,” she said quietly, “you fit in so remarkably well.”

  “I do, don't I?”

  “Mother loves you. All the shirttail family thinks I was crazy to get rid of you in the first place. Lisa would sell her soul to get us back together. Randy's even coming around little by little. And Barb and Don—it felt like slipping into an old, comfortable easy chair to be with them again.”

  “Boy, didn't it.”

  “Isn't it strange, how we both gave them up? I thought you were probably seeing them all along.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “With the possible exception of Heather down at the store, I really don't have any friends anymore. I seem to have forsaken them since we got divorced—don't ask me why.”

  “That's not healthy.”

  “I know.”

  “Why do you suppose you did that?”

  “Because when you're divorced you always end up feeling like the odd man out. Everyone else has a partner to be with and there you are trailing along like a kid sister.”

  “I thought you had that boyfriend.”

  “Keith? Mmmm . . . no, Keith wasn't one I took around and introduced to many people. When I did, most of them looked at me funny and got me in a corner and whispered, ‘What in the world are you doing with him?' ”

  “How long did you go with him?”

  “Three years.”

  They rode awhile before Michael asked, “Did you sleep with him?”

  She gave him a mock slap on the arm and put distance between them. “Michael Curran, what business is it of yours?”

  “Sorry.”

  Away from him, she felt chilled. She snuggled back against his arm and said, “Close the window, will you? It's cold.”

  The window made a whirr and thump and the chill breeze disappeared.

  “Yes,” Bess said after some time. “I slept with Keith. But never at home and never overnight so the kids would know.”

  It took some time before Michael said, “You want to know something funny? I'm jealous.”

  “Oh, that's rich. You're jealous?”

  “I knew you'd say that.”

  “When I found out about Darla I wanted to scratch her eyes out, and yours, too.”

  “You should have. Maybe things would have ended up differently.”

  They spent time with their private thoughts before Bess told Michael, “My mother asked me if we were holding hands in church today and I lied.”

  “You lied? But you never lie!”

  “I know but I did this time.”

  “Why?”

  “I don't know. Yes, I do.” She pondered a while and admitted, “No, I don't. Why were we?” She tilted her head to look up at him.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do. It was a sentimental moment.”

  “But it had nothing to do with renewing vows, did it?”

  “No.”

  Bess felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

  Soon, she yawned and snuggled against his arm once more.

  “Tired?”

  “Mmm . . . it's catching up at last.”

  Michael raised his voice and told the driver, “You can head back to Stillwater now.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  On the way Bess fell asleep. Michael stared out the window at the blur of snowless, grassless land lit by the perimeter of the headlights. The wheels dipped into a low spot in the road and Michael swayed in his seat, Bess along with him, her weight heavy against his arm.

  When they reached the house on Third Avenue, he touched her face.

  “Hey, Bess, we're home.”

  She had trouble lifting her head, as much trouble opening her eyes.

  “Oh . . . mmm . . . Michael . . . ?”

  “You're home.”

  She forced herself upright as the driver opened the door on Michael's side. He stepped out and offered his hand, helping her out. The driver stood beside the open trunk.

  “Shall I help you carry the gifts inside, sir?”

  “I'd appreciate that.”

  Bess led the way, unlocking the door, turning on a hall light and a table lamp in the family room. The two men carried the gifts inside and stacked them in the family room on the floor and the sofa. The front door stood wide open. Michael followed the driver to it and
said, “Thanks for your help. I'll be out in just a minute.”

  He closed the door and slowly walked the length of the hall to the family room, where he stopped with the sofa and a long table separating him from Bess, who stood among the packages.

  Michael's glance swept the room.

  “The house looks nice. I like what you've done with this room.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice colors.” His glance returned to her. “I never was much good with colors.”

  She took two precariously perched boxes off the sofa and put them on the floor.

  “Are you coming over tomorrow?”

  “Am I invited?”

  “Well, of course you are. You're Lisa's father, and she'll want you here when she opens her gifts.”

  “Then I'll be here. What time?”

  “Two o'clock. There was food left over so don't eat lunch.”

  “You need any help? You want me to come early?”

  “No, all I have to do is make coffee but thanks for offering. Just be here at two.”

  “It's a deal.”

  A lull fell. They weren't sure if Randy was home or not. If so, he was down in his room asleep. From outside came the faint note of the limousine engine. Inside, the room was dim, the window coverings drawn high, the night beyond the sliding glass door absorbing much of the light cast by the single burning lamp. Michael's tie was in his pocket, his collar button open, his cummerbund a splash of color as he stood on the opposite side of the furniture from Bess, with his hands in his pockets.

  “Walk me to the door,” he said.

  She came around the sofa at a pace suggesting reluctance to see the evening end. Their arms slipped around each other as they sauntered, hip-to-hip, to the door.

  Reaching it, he said, “I had fun.”

  “So did I.”

  She turned to face him. He linked his hands on her spine and rested his hips lightly against hers.

  “Well . . . congratulations, Mom.” He gave a smile of boyish allure.

  She returned it, accompanied by a throaty chuckle. “Congratulations, Dad. We got us a son-in-law, didn't we?”

  “A good one, I think.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Would they or wouldn't they? The questions glimmered between them as they stood together with every outward sign indicating they wanted to, and every inward voice warning it was unwise: that once in the limousine had been dangerous enough. He ignored the voice, dipped his head and kissed her, open-mouthed, tasting her fully and without restraint. Where his tongue went, hers followed, into all the familiar sleek caverns they'd learned during long-ago kisses. She tasted as he remembered, felt the same, the contours of her lips, teeth and tongue as familiar as during the uncountable kisses of their younger years. Their lips grew wet and he could tell by her breathing she was as turned on as he.

  When he lifted his head she whispered, “Michael, we shouldn't.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he replied, stepping away from her against all his basic instincts. “See you tomorrow.”

  When he was gone she shut off the downstairs lights and climbed the stairs in the dark. Halfway up she paused, realizing he had offered to help her in the kitchen. She was smiling as she continued toward her bedroom.

  * * *

  At 1:30 P.M. the following day Randy found Bess in the kitchen. He was dressed in jeans and a distressed leather bomber jacket. She, dressed in green wool slacks with a matching sweater, was arranging cold turkey and raw vegetables on a two-tiered platter. The room smelled strongly of perking coffee.

  “I don't think I can make it today, Mom.”

  She glanced up sharply. “What do you mean, you can't?”

  “I mean, I can't. I gotta meet some guys.”

  “You're a member of the wedding party. What guys are more important than your sister on her wedding weekend?”

  “Mom, I'd stay if I could, but—”

  “You'll stay, mister, and call your guys and tell them you'll make it another time!”

  “Mom, goddamnit, why do you have to pick today to become Mussolini?” He thumped a fist on the cabinet top.

  “First of all, stop your cursing. Second, stop rapping your fist on the counter. And third, grow up! You're Lisa and Mark's best man. As such you have social obligations that aren't done yet. This gift-opening today is as much a part of the wedding festivities as last night was, and she'll expect you to be here.”

  “She won't care,” he jeered. “Hell, she won't even miss me.”

  “She won't, because you won't be missing!”

  “What's got into you all of a sudden, Ma? Did the old man tell you you ought to get tougher on me?”

  Bess flung a handful of raw cauliflower into a bowl of ice water. It splashed onto her sleeve as she spun to face him.

  “I've had just about all the smart remarks about him I'm going to take from you, young man. He's making an effort, a real effort where you're concerned. And if he did tell me to get tough on you, and if that were the reason I am—which I'm not saying is true—maybe he'd be right! Now I want you back downstairs, out of that leather jacket and into some kind of respectable shirt. And when our guests get here I'd like you to answer the door, if that wouldn't be too much trouble,” she ended mordantly, turning back to the raw vegetables.

  He went downstairs, leaving her facing the kitchen sink with her face burning and her pulse elevated.

  Mothering! Whoever said it got easier as they got older was a damned liar! She hated the indecisiveness—should she have lashed out or not? Should she have given orders or not? He was an adult, so he deserved being treated like an adult. But he lived in her house, lived in it virtually scot-free at nineteen, when most boys his age were either attending college, paying rent or both. So she had a right to have expectations and make demands now and then. But did she have to take him on today of all days? Thirty minutes before a houseful of guests arrived?

  She dried her hands, swiped the droplets of water off her sleeve and followed him downstairs. In his room the stereo was playing quietly and he was standing with his back to the door, facing the chain-and-metal bar that held his clothes, yanking off his shirt as if someone had called him a sissy. She went up behind him and touched his back. He got absolutely still, his wrists still caught in his inverted sleeves.

  “I'm sorry I shouted. Please stay home this afternoon. You were wonderful on the drums last night. Dad and I were so proud of you.” She slipped her arms around his trunk, gave him a swift kiss between the shoulder blades and left him standing there, his chin on his chest, his shirt still dangling from one wrist.

  * * *

  When the doorbell rang for the first time, Randy was there to answer it, dressed in a pressed cotton shirt and creased pants. It was Aunt Joan, Uncle Clark and Grandma Dorner, probably the easiest person to hug of all Randy knew, because with Grandma Dorner nothing was calamitous. She had a way of bringing everything into perspective. She hugged him in passing, said, “Nice job with those drumsticks,” gave him her coat and continued toward the kitchen, asking what she could do to help.

  Lisa and Mark came next, arriving at the same time as Michael, all of them swiftly followed by the Padgetts, who descended en masse. Randy's heart gave a little surge as he took Maryann's coat, but he might have been a hired doorman for all the truck she gave him. She handed him her coat, making sure it was off her shoulders so he need not touch her, turning away in conversation with her mother as they moved toward the family room, where a fire was burning in the fireplace and food was spread on the adjacent dining-room table.

  He remained on the perimeter of the activity the entire afternoon, feeling like an outsider in his own home, standing back, watching and listening as gifts were opened and oohed over, studying Maryann, who never so much as glanced at him, watching his mother and dad, who remained carefully remote from each other at all times but whose eyes occasionally met and exchanged covert messages.

  Damn weddings, he thought. If this is what they do t
o people, I'm never going to get married. Everybody goes crazy, they do things they wouldn't do for a thousand bucks on a normal day. Shit, who needs it?

  When the giftwrap was shaped like a mountain and the table looked as though a grasshopper plague had just passed, the carry-through of weariness from three days of activity began to dull and slow everyone. Michael asked Lisa to play “The Homecoming” on the piano and she obliged. Half the guests left; half trailed into the formal living room while some of the women began repacking the gifts into their boxes and making neat stacks of them.

  The music ended and the group thinned more. Randy caught Maryann just as she was about to leave and said, “Could I talk to you a minute?”

  She found someplace to occupy her eyes: on her purse handle, untwisting it before threading it over her shoulder with a toss of her head. “No, I don't think so.”

  “Maryann, please. Just come in the living room a minute.” He caught her sleeve and tugged.

  Reluctantly she followed, refusing to meet his eyes. Outside, twilight had arrived. The room was dusky at the west end, where no lamps were lit. At the east end, the lamp on the abandoned piano made a small puddle of light. Randy led Maryann around a corner, away from the prying eyes of the departing guests, and stopped beside an upholstered wing chair with a matching ottomon.

  “Maryann, I'm sorry about last night,” Randy said.

  She ran a thumbnail along the welting on the high back of the chair. “Last night was a mistake, all right? I never should have gone outside with you in the first place.”

  “But you did.”

  She gave up her preoccupation with the chair and flung him a reprimanding glare. “You're a talented person. It's obvious you come from a home with a lot of love, in spite of the fact that your parents are divorced. I mean, look at this!” She waved a hand at the room. “Look at them, and how they've made a solid show of support throughout this wedding. I know a lot more about you than you think I do—from Lisa. What are you fighting against?” When he made no reply she said, “I don't want to see you, Randy, so please don't call or anything.”

  She left to join her parents on their way out the door. He dropped onto the ottoman and sat staring at the bookshelves in the far corner, where the gloaming was so deep he could not discern the spines of the volumes.