Bygones

  She let him drive, deriving a secret maternal pleasure from being escorted by her full-grown son, something she had fantasized about when he was a young boy, something that happened all too infrequently since he'd become a man. They took highway 96 to White Bear Lake, ten miles due west. The ride led them through snow-covered countryside, past horse ranches and long stretches where no electric lights shone. The lake itself appeared, a blanket of blue-gray in the thin light of an eighth-moon, and rimming it, like a necklace of amber, the lights from lakeshore homes. The lake shared its name with the town that lay on its northwest curve, paling the night sky with its halo.

  As they were approaching the city lights, with a bay of the lake on their left, Mark said, “That's where the old man lives.”

  “Where?”

  “In those condos.”

  Bess looked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of lights receding behind them, tall skeletal trees and an imposing building she'd often admired when driving past.

  “How do you know?”

  “Lisa told me.”

  “Your dad will be there tonight, you know.”

  Randy glanced her way but said nothing.

  “See what you can do to act natural around him, okay?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “For Lisa's sake.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Randy, if you say yes Mother one more time I'm going to sock you.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  She socked him and they both chuckled.

  “You know what I'm saying about your dad.”

  “I'll try not to punch his lights out.”

  The Padgetts lived on the west side of town in a middle-class residential neighborhood as flat as an elephant's foot. Randy found the house without a misturn and escorted his mother along the edge of a driveway filled with cars to a sidewalk that curved between snowbanks and led to the front door.

  They rang the bell and waited.

  Mark and Lisa answered, followed by a short woman shaped like a chest of drawers, in a blue dress with a pleated skirt and a white collar. She had brown hair, frizzled in a bowl-shape, and a smile that put six dimples in her cheeks and made her eyes all but disappear.

  Mark said simply, with an arm around her shoulder, “This is my mom, Hildy.”

  And Lisa said, “This is my mom, Bess, and my brother, Randy.”

  Hildy Padgett had a grip like a stevedore's and a contralto voice.

  “Glad to meet you. Jake, come over here!” she called, and they were joined by Mark's father, straight, tall, thin-haired and smiling, with a hearing aid in his left ear. He was wearing brown trousers and a plaid shirt, open at the throat and rolled up at the cuff. No jacket.

  There would be—Bess saw—no dog put on by the Padgetts, not even at a wedding. She liked them immediately.

  The living room stretched off to the left, decorated like a country keeping room with blue-and-white plaid wallpaper and a plate rail running the perimeter of the room, a foot below the ceiling. The furniture was thick and comfortable-looking and filled with people. Among them, standing near the archway to the dining room, was Michael Curran.

  At the sound of the doorbell Michael turned to watch Bess come in, looking very voguish, followed by Randy, looking surprisingly tall in an outsized overcoat with baggy shoulders and a turned-up collar. The sight of Bess coming in escorted by their son caught Michael in a vulnerable spot. Lord, Randy had grown up! The last time Michael had seen him was nearly three years ago in a busy shopping center. It was Easter, Michael recalled, and the mall had been turned into a miniature farm, with children everywhere, petting baby goats and chickens and ducks. Michael had just bought a spring jacket and come out of J. Riggings to find Randy moving toward him in the foot traffic, talking animatedly with another boy about his age. Michael had smiled and headed toward him but when Randy spied him, he'd halted, sobered, grabbed his friend's arm and done a brusque right-face, disappearing into a convenient women's clothing store.

  Now here he was, three years later, taller than his mother and shockingly good-looking. His face had filled out and resembled Michael's own, though Randy was much handsomer. Michael felt a paternal thrill at the sight of that dark hair so much like his; the eyes, mouth and cheeks that had at last taken on the mature planes and curves they would keep into middle age.

  He watched Randy shaking hands, giving up his overcoat, and finally Randy's deep brown eyes found Michael's. His hand stopped smoothing down his tie. The smile dropped from his mouth.

  Michael felt his chest constrict. His heart flopped crazily. They stood for a light-year, across the room from one another while the past rushed forth to polarize them both. How simple, Michael thought, to cross the room, speak his name, embrace him, this young man who as a boy had idolized his father, had followed like a shadow beside him when he mowed the lawn and shoveled the driveway and changed the oil in the car and said, “Daddy, can I help?”

  But Michael could not move. He could only stand across the room with a lump in his throat, trapped by his own mistaken past.

  Someone came between them—Jake Padgett, extending his hand in welcome, and Randy's attention swerved to him.

  Bess moved into Michael's line of vision. They forced smiles while he committed himself to his spot in the dining-room archway. He might have moved forward to speak to Randy while Bess was near at hand to act as a buffer but the hurt of Randy's last snub returned, sharp and real as if it had happened only yesterday. Bess's admonitions the other night at Lisa's rang clearly in Michael's head—Randy needs a father, be one to him.

  But how?

  The living room was filled with people—the other four Padgett children, all younger than Mark, as well as a grandmother and grandfather—requiring a round-robin of introductions that seemed to shift people like fog. But Randy made sure he remained far enough from Michael to avoid the risk of having to speak. Bess, however, shook hands with one after another and eventually reached her ex-husband.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said, remote as if their brief truce had never happened.

  “Hello, Bess.”

  They trained their eyes on the people and lamps across the room, avoiding the risk of lingering glances. They struggled for polite inanities, finding none. Covertly he assessed her clothes, hair, jewelry and nails—mercy, had she changed. As much as Randy, if not more.

  Bess clamped a black patent-leather clutch bag beneath one elbow and adjusted an outsized gold earring, looking over the crowd while speaking.

  “Randy's grown up, hasn't he?”

  “Has he ever. I couldn't believe it was him.”

  “Are you going to talk to him or just stand here as if he's a stranger?”

  “You think he'd talk to me?”

  “You can give it a try.”

  A memory flashed past of Randy at two, padding into their bedroom on Saturday mornings and climbing aboard his chest in his feet pajamas. 'Toons, Daddy, he would say, and Michael would open his bleary eyes and tip him down for a kiss, then the two of them would whisper awhile before sneaking out to turn on cartoons and let Mommy have a morning in bed. He wanted to kiss him now, wanted to pin his arms at his sides and take him in a fatherly embrace and say I'm sorry I screwed up, forgive me.

  Hildy Padgett came from the kitchen with a tray of canapés. Jake was passing around cups of mulled cider. Lisa was showing the grandparents her small diamond ring, and Mark was with her. Randy stood across the room with his hands in his trouser pockets, knowing no one, glancing occasionally at his father but determinedly keeping his distance.

  One of them had to make the move.

  It required a heroic effort but Michael took the risk.

  He crossed the room and said, “Hello, Randy.”

  Randy said, “Yeah,” his eyes casting about beyond Michael's shoulder.

  “I wasn't sure it was you, you got so tall.”

  “Yeah, well, that happens, you know.”

  “How have you been?”

>   Randy shrugged, still avoiding his father's eyes.

  “Your mother tells me you're still working in a warehouse.”

  “So?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “What's to like? You get up in the morning, you go put in your hours. It's just something to do till I get in with a band.”

  “A band?”

  “Yeah, drums—with a band, you know, like rrupp pup pup rrr . . .”

  “You pretty good?”

  For the first time Randy looked squarely into Michael's eyes. An insolent expression twisted his face, and he released a sarcastic snort. “Spare me,” he said and walked away.

  Michael's stomach felt as if he'd leapt off a second-story roof. He watched Randy's shiny black curls as the young man moved off, and felt the clench of disappointment and failure. His face grew warm and a fist seemed to be closing over his windpipe.

  He glanced over at Bess and found her watching.

  She's right. I'm a failure as a father.

  Lisa came to rescue him, capturing his elbow and hauling him across the room. “Dad, Grampa Earl was wondering about your cabin. He used to be a big hunter and I was just telling him you got a ten-point buck this fall. He wanted to hear more about it.”

  Earl Padgett was a big man with three chins and a florid face. He had a voice like a truck collision and endless hunting stories upon which to use it. His gestures were wide and sweeping, and when he pointed an invisible gun he might as well have been wearing a camouflage hunting vest lined with rows of shotgun shells. The hunting stories drew in Jake as well as the Padgett boys, who'd been hunting since they were old enough to take gun-safety classes. Of the men in the room, only Randy remained aloof.

  Michael listened and added his own hunting anecdotes, all the time aware of Randy visiting with Bess, his back turned on Michael.

  He'd bought Randy a .22 when Randy was twelve, and had dreamed of teaching the boy all about the woods and wildlife, and taking him on hunting trips. But his divorce had quashed that dream. Now he stood among a circle of fathers and sons whose enthusiasm had been passed from generation to generation, and his heart broke for what he and Randy had missed.

  Hildy Padgett came in and announced dinner.

  In the dining room, Michael and Bess were directed to seat themselves side-by-side at one end of the table, while Hildy and Jake presided at the opposite end. Mark and Lisa took chairs in the center of one long side, and the others were staggered around. Michael automatically pulled out Bess's chair. Her poise faltered momentarily while she shot him a wry glance, then she submitted to propriety and accepted his gesture of courtesy.

  While Michael was seating himself he caught Randy watching sourly from diagonally across the table.

  In an undertone he said to Bess, “I don't think Randy likes seeing me with you.”

  “Probably not,” she replied, flipping her napkin onto her lap, glancing surreptitiously at Randy. “Did he say something about it?”

  “No, just glared at me when I pulled out your chair.”

  “On the other hand, Lisa seems overjoyed. I've assured them both it's all for appearances. So . . . here we go.” She picked up her glass of water and saluted him. “Let's see if we can't keep up the charade for our children's sake.” He returned her salute and they sipped their water. A platter of ham was served, followed by bowls of vegetables, warm rolls, butter, bacon-and-lettuce salad and glorified rice, all passed around family-style. Passing a bowl to Bess, on his left, Michael remarked, “If someone had told me a week ago that I'd be sharing a dinner table with you twice in one week I'd have said no way.”

  “We did this a time or two with our own families, didn't we?” She watched him load his plate with au gratin potatoes and said, “Hildy really hit you in the taste buds, didn't she?”

  He took an immense helping and answered, “Mmm . . . I still love 'em.”

  He always had. Watching him loading up on his old favorites brought back a sharp flash of nostalgia. Her mother had always said, That Michael is fun to cook for. He knows how to eat.

  Bess glanced away from his plate—damn, she was thinking like a throwback. But it was difficult to sit beside a man with whom you've shared thousands of meals, whose table mannerisms are more familiar to you than your own, without those familiarities imposing themselves. She found herself anticipating his moves before he made them—how he held his fork, where he laid his knife, the order in which he tasted his food, the particular way he stroked one corner of his mouth with the pad of his right thumb after taking a drink, how he rested a wrist on the edge of the table while he chewed. Certain quiet sounds peculiar only to him.

  “Did you have that talk with Lisa?”

  She turned to find him watching her, chewing, his lips politely closed. There was an intimacy to chewing that had never struck her more profoundly than at that moment. He still had beautiful lips. She looked away. “Yes, I did. I went over to her apartment the next night.”

  “Do you feel better now?”

  “Yes. Infinitely.”

  “Look at her,” Michael said, poising with an elbow on the table, holding a glass of iced tea.

  Bess studied their daughter. She appeared jubilant, laughing with her intended, the two of them unquestionably happy.

  “Look at them,” Bess corrected. “She convinced me he's the right one for her. She almost had me in tears that night.”

  “And what about your wedding dress?”

  “She's going to wear it.”

  Bess felt Michael's gaze on the side of her face and succumbed to the urge to meet his eyes. Webs of wistfulness drew them.

  “It's hard to believe she's old enough, isn't it?” he said quietly.

  “Yes. It seems like only yesterday we had her.”

  “Randy, too.”

  “I know.”

  “My guess is, he's watching us right now and wondering what's going on down here.”

  “Is something going on down here?”

  He shocked her by replying, “You look great tonight, Bess.”

  She flushed and applied herself to cutting a piece of ham. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Michael, that's absurd.”

  “Well, you do. Is there any harm in my saying so? You've really changed since we divorced.”

  Her anger flared. “Oh, you're really smooth. You're without a wife—what? A month? Two?—and you're telling me how great I look? Don't insult me, Michael.”

  “I didn't mean to.”

  At that moment Jake Padgett stood up with a glass of iced tea and interrupted. “I think a toast is in order here. I'm not very good at this so you'll have to bear with me.” He rubbed his left eyebrow with the edge of a finger. “Mark's our first to get married, and naturally we hoped he'd pick somebody we liked. Well, we sure got our wish when he brought Lisa home. We just couldn't be happier, and Lisa, honey, I know you're going to make him the happiest man in Minnesota when you marry him. We want to welcome you, and say how nice it is to have you and your family here with us tonight.” He saluted Michael and Bess and nodded to Randy. “And so . . .” He raised his glass to the engaged couple. “Here's to a smooth road ahead for Lisa and Mark. We're behind you all the way.”

  Everyone joined in the toast. Jake resumed his seat and there passed between Michael and Bess a silent message, the kind husbands and wives of long standing can execute merely by the expression in their eyes.

  Somebody should make a toast on our side.

  You want to do it?

  No, you.

  Michael rose, pressing his tie to his shirt, lifting his glass.

  “Jake, Hildy, all of you, thank you for inviting us. It's the proper way to start a young couple off, with the families united and showing their support. Lisa's mother and I are proud of her, and happy for her, and we welcome Mark as her husband-to-be. Lisa . . . Mark . . . you have our love. Good luck to you.”

  When the toast was complete, Michael sat down and Bess felt herself in an emotional turmoil. There wasn't a false wo
rd in his toast. It was the proper way to start the young couple off but how bittersweet, having their own immediate family reassembled for the first time amidst all these undercurrents. Earlier, when she'd watched Michael cross the room and approach Randy, her heart had leaped with hope. When Randy turned away, she had felt bereaved. Sitting beside Michael she'd been wafted first by nostalgia, then by bitterness and now, in the wake of the toasts, she simply felt muddled.

  She was divorced and independent. She had proved she could live alone, build a business, keep a house and a car and a lawn and her own tax records. But the truth was, sitting beside Michael again, on this auspicious occasion, felt fitting. Having him stand and make a toast on behalf of them brought both a strong sense of security—imitation though it was—and a longing for what was gone: a father, a mother, their children, united as it had been in the beginning, as they had thought it would always be when they'd conceived those children who were now seated across the table.

  Michael sensed himself being observed, turned and caught Bess regarding him.

  She glanced away self-consciously.

  Coffee and dessert were served—a layered concoction of angel food, strawberries, bananas and something white and fluffy. She watched Michael watching Randy while he ate. Randy ignored his father and visited with the Padgetts' seventeen-year-old daughter on his left.

  “That was a nice toast you gave,” Bess offered.

  Michael took a forkful of dessert, which he held without eating. “This whole thing is turning out to be tougher than I thought.”

  She resisted the impulse to lay her hand on his sleeve. “Don't give up on him, Michael, please.”

  Cognizant of social obligation, surrounded as they were by people they'd just met, they assumed untroubled faces and pretended to be politely chitchatting.

  “It hurts,” he said.

  “I know. It hurts him, too. That's why you can't give up.”

  He laid down his fork, picked up a cup of coffee and held it in both hands, looking beyond it at his son.

  “He really hates me.”

  “I think he wants to but it's costing him.”

  He sipped his coffee, left his elbows propped on the table. In time he turned to study Bess. “What's your stake in all this? Why all of a sudden the push to see Randy and I reconcile?”