Family Blessings

  “Yes,” she whispered, then closed her eyes, breathing as if his hands were upon her, picturing his face, his sturdy fingers, his unclothed body, while only silence connected their two telephones.

  “Lee?” he whispered after a long while.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t waste a minute getting over here after you drop Joey off.” She didn’t. At 7:07 she was walking through his door, and by 7:09 neither of them had a stitch of clothing on. They didn’t make it as far as his bedroom but tumbled to the living room floor where the radio was playing and two lamps were lit beside the sofa. This time, she hadn’t a single inhibition about being seen in the light, but rolled with him, and spread her limbs at his bidding, and let him kiss her in the most intimate of places, which had been scented for that purpose.

  Their coupling was greedy and untamed, a splendid natural compulsion carrying them from one pleasure to another after their forced celibacy. They explored poses balletic and profane, submitting completely to the unutterable joy of this act.

  They had been kneeling, face-to-face, when she fell back, her arms upflung, her ribs forming a bridge where he spread one hand.

  Her words came as an afterbeat. “I can feel you . . . clear up to . . . my heart . . . my God . . . my God . . . my God . . .”

  “I never thought you’d be like this.”

  “I’ve never been . . . before . . .”

  He hauled her up and she came with the same loose freedom as she’d fallen back, to kiss him and move upon him and mess his hair and wet his mouth with her own.

  “Lee . . . Lee . . . I still can’t believe I’m with you, and doing this.”

  She was forty-five, and flying free, and making up for so much lost time.

  When she climaxed, he stifled her cry with a sofa pillow, afraid the tenants in the apartment below would hear. When he climaxed, she watched, smiling down their bodies, taking joy in the sight of them joined. In paroxysm he was beautiful, bowed back upon her with his jaw fallen open and his breath strident. She touched his damp brow and ran a finger into his open mouth, which settled closed as his eyes came open.

  Afterward, they lay on their sides on the turfy texture of the carpet, holding one another with their legs and their gazes. Near their heads a branch of the ficus tree fluttered in the forced air rising up through the hot-air vent. The low bass beat of the radio reverberated along the floor and up into their ribs. Outside, snow pecked at the windows and wind prowled, but in the saffron light from the lamps Christopher and Lee felt warmed from within.

  “You’re something,” he said, exhausted.

  “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “Too long without it.”

  “Something more, I think. This is a different me.”

  He touched her lower lip, misshaped it and let it spring back to its natural contour. “When I first started thinking about you in a sexual way, I imagined that you’d be very straight, very proper about it.”

  “I used to be. You’ve changed me.”

  “How did I manage that?”

  “I don’t know. You just . . .” She rolled to her back, one elbow jutting up, one breast flat and stretched, attracting his idle hand while their bodies remained in a liquid link below. “There you are, thirty and sturdy and making me into this sex-crazed woman where I used to be so . . . well, so functional, so oriented all day long at work. Now I lose track of what I’m doing, and I scheme to get away from the shop to meet you and do this, and a day without you seems like a month.”

  “It’s the same for me. But it’s more than sex. You’re there for me in more ways than that.”

  “What ways?” she said, still lazing backward while he ran a . ngertip over her ribs and around one nipple, down to her navel, inside it, then back up her center.

  “The day after New Year’s when you came here at noon and we couldn’t make love, I felt contented just sitting with you on my lap in the sun. And when my job gets me down and I can come to you the way I did the other day when I put Judd in that foster home . . . that’s all part of it for me. And that part is just as good as this part.”

  Smiling lazily, she rolled her shoulder toward him slightly, giving shape to her breast once more, so that it fit nicely into his hand.

  “Just as good?” she teased.

  “Well,” he amended, grinning, “just about as good.”

  Her throat fluttered in a silent chuckle, then she rolled to lie faceto-face with him, lifting the hair at his nape with four fingers, studying his features while her laughter dissolved into something much more profound.

  “For me, too,” she whispered.

  She lifted her weight from the floor and bore it on one elbow, rolling slightly onto him to kiss him more affectionately than passionately.

  “You’ve made me so happy,” she said, strumming his hair back from his ears as if it were lute strings.

  “I’m glad.”

  “And you know something?”

  He waited, sated, for her to go on.

  “I truly believe that the quality of a relationship can be measured by the quality of the time after making love. What do you think?”

  He thought he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this woman, that’s what he thought. Catching her neck in the crook of one elbow, he sighed her name, “Oh, Lee . . . ,” and settled her in the bays and cays of his body, letting the unsaid speak louder than any words he could have replied.

  SHEdreamed of Greg that night for only the third time since his death. The dream was simple, just a glimpse of him smiling and saying, “I took care of that hose, Mom,” as he walked into the kitchen adjusting a red bill cap. She awakened disoriented, believing during those few fragile seconds before total wakefulness that he was still alive. Full awareness brought the hammer blows of her own heartbeat against the bedding, reminding her that he was truly dead and she’d never hear his voice or see his face again. She touched things to make certain she was awake: the bedspread, her forehead, the nightstand, cool and solid at the tip of her outstretched arm.

  What had the dream meant? And why had it come tonight right after she’d spent time with Christopher? Was it a signal that she truly was substituting Christopher for Greg, if not in the physical sense, then in the emotional?

  That day, still melancholy from the dream, Lee received a second reminder of Greg—a telephone call from Nolan Steeg. “Hello,” he said simply, “just wondering how you’re doing.” The sound of his voice clutched her with a deeper wistfulness, though she never failed to be touched by the sensitivity of the young people who continued calling this way instead of forgetting she’d ever known them and been part of their lives. Dear, thoughtful Nolan—how heartwarming to realize that he’d cared enough about Greg to continue caring about his family. He and Lee had a ten-minute visit about Nolan’s job, Joey’s driving, Janice’s return to school, the winter weather. Finally, when they’d spoken of everything except the subject that was on both of their minds, Nolan said, “I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking of Greg so much today.”

  What a relief it was to speak directly of him at last.

  “Oh, Nolan, me, too . . . I dreamed of him last night.”

  “I never dream of him. I wish I would. It’d be nice to see him again.”

  “I can’t believe you called today, just when I needed it. Not everybody realizes that I still need to talk about him sometimes.”

  “He was my friend my whole life long. It takes longer than a few months to get over losing him. I can’t imagine how long it’s going to take you. I’m just glad you’re the kind I can talk to.”

  After Lee hung up she found her spirits fluctuating between happy recollections of the past and present self-pity. Nolan’s call had sparked so many vivid memories of the two young boys through the years—in elementary school together, then in junior high like Joey was now, then in senior high, double-dating, going out for sports, polishing their first cars in the driveway, working barebacked in the sun while their
car radios shook the leaves on the trees. At times during that day these images would bring a sting to Lee’s eyes; at other times they would bring an unconscious smile, a healing acceptance.

  But as if fate was out to undermine all the progress she’d made since last June, it had one more reminder in store. On her way home from work that night, she switched on the car radio, and what should be playing but Vince Gill’s “When I Call Your Name.” The chance of her hitting that particular song during the five-minute drive home was remote. Yet there it was, crooning out of the cold speakers, the third and most powerful reminder of Greg.

  Music. Its nostalgia hit with an insidious impact. It was the most recent of his likes, this song that was still pouring forth from radios all over America, speaking to people’s emotions on multiple levels. But not to Greg’s. No longer to Greg’s. What had he felt when he’d heard these words? Who had he thought of? Had there been a special girl he’d loved and lost and still longed for? A girl he might have eventually married? Had children with? Spent a happy life with?

  That song began the thought that Lee had trained herself during the past seven months to shut out:

  If only . . .

  If only . . .

  If only . . .

  She didn’t quite make it home before beginning to cry. Joey was there in the kitchen dropping some macaroni into boiling water when she walked in.

  “Will you make some macaroni and cheese, Mom? But you gotta hurry. I’ve got to be at . . .” His expression grew fearful when he saw her tears. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  He came to her straightaway and they hugged.

  “Greg,” she said through a stuffy nose. “I’m missing him something awful today.”

  He hugged her harder, standing very still.

  “Me, too. I wonder why.”

  “I don’t know. Nolan called, too. He said the same thing.”

  “Why would we all be thinking of him at the same time?”

  “Who knows? Earth rhythms, biorhythms, the pattern of the stars. We think we’re healed, then we find out we’re a long way from it.”

  “Yeah,” he said in a croaky voice against her hair. “Bummer.”

  She rubbed his shoulder blades, smiled sadly and repeated, “Yeah . . . a real bummer.” Over the last half year Joey had surpassed her in height. The realization only added to her gloominess: soon he, too, would grow up and be gone from her. She drew back in spite of the thought, perhaps because of it, and forced life to take precedence over death.

  “So. You’ve started some macaroni and cheese.” She found several tissues and offered a couple to Joey. They blew their noses and wiped their eyes, and she turned down the stove burner before the macaroni boiled over. “And you’ve got to be at the high school at seven-thirty.”

  “Yeah,” he said without much spirit. “Anoka’s playing Coon Rapids.” It was the biggest rivalry of the year.

  She took his face in both hands and gave it a little love pat and smooch. “And pretty soon I won’t have to give you a ride to these things anymore.”

  “Denny’s mom is giving us a ride tonight.”

  “Well, good. Now, let’s get this cheese sauce made.”

  When he was gone she cleaned up the kitchen and changed into blue jeans and a sweatshirt. The house was very quiet. The dishwasher made a rhythmic thump-thump-thump and sent out the lemony smell of steamy detergent. The houseplants needed watering but she suddenly despised the thought of watering one more plant, of touching one more leaf after a day, days, years of doing so. Suddenly she missed Janice so terribly much the center of her chest hurt—now where had that come from? She, who had adjusted to Janice’s going off to college within months of her doing so. She dialed Janice’s dorm number but nobody answered: Friday night, and what healthy, well-adjusted, pretty young coed wouldn’t be out with friends? Lee hung up, braced both elbows on the kitchen counter and poked the tip of one finger into the leftover macaroni and cheese left cooling in a plastic storage dish.

  Poke . . . poke . . . poke . . .

  Holding her feelings at bay . . .

  Holding . . . holding . . .

  Until a sob burst forth with such ferociousness it laid her flat against the countertop, her hand lying limp beside the macaroni.

  Christopher arrived when she was mopping up her face. He stepped inside with two rented videos and a red pie box from Bakers Square.

  He asked the same question Joey had.

  “Lee? What’s wrong?”

  She sniffled and said, “It’s dumb.”

  He set down the videos and pie.

  “What’s dumb? Come here . . .” He went to her instead, and gathered her into his arms against the cold nylon of his jacket with the smell of winter captured in its filaments. Gently cupping the back of her neck, resting his lips on her forehead, he asked again, “What’s dumb?”

  “Greg,” she got out before she began crying again.

  He was the only one who didn’t say anything, and it was precisely what she needed. Simply to be held, loved, rocked, petted, understood in silence by this man. The comfort of others mattered—it certainly had—but all day long she had yearned toward this minute when she could curl into a cocoon in Christopher’s arms and feel at last the perfect consolation, for that’s what he had become to her. No others, no matter how she loved or cared about them, could ful-fill the need he had begun fulfilling in her day-to-day existence. Much as he had come to her when life got too complicated and sad, she now turned to him.

  He let her cry for as long as she needed, then turned with one arm around her and walked slowly to the living room where they sat on the sofa in darkness softened only by the peachy light from the distant kitchen. She coiled up tightly against him like a snail beneath a leaf while he turned her legs to the side and draped them over his lap, laying his cheek on her hair.

  In time she began telling him about her day, the trio of reminders that had rekindled her grief: the dream, Nolan’s call and Greg’s favorite song. She confessed her disappointment in discovering she wasn’t healed of her grief after all.

  “I guess I’m still what they call vulnerable, even after all these months.”

  “ ‘They’—who is ‘they’?”

  “The books, the magazines, the people who appear on talk shows. They all say you’re vulnerable for a long time after a loss, and you should give yourself time before making changes in your life.”

  “Vulnerable to me, is that what you mean?”

  “Oh, Christopher, I don’t know what I mean. I thought I was over the worst of it, that’s all; now here I am right back where I was seven months ago.”

  “Hardly. You’ve come a long way since then.”

  His coolheaded common sense reassured her. “I suppose you’re right, and deep down inside I realize that I tend to get melodramatic. But this doesn’t feel like melodrama. It feels like a great big empty ache that’s never going to go away.”

  He could tell perfectly well what had happened today: She’d experienced a relapse of grief and had stepped back to assess her sexual relationship with him, which had begun to look suspiciously much like overreaction in the wake of loss. Were the two of them greedily grasping at life, proving they were not squandering it by engaging in this coital merry-go-round with each other? Were they fooling themselves about being in love in order to justify what they were doing on couches and floors and in his bed every chance they got? When the true period of mourning was over, would they find out they had merely used each other to get through it?

  “You know, Lee, you’re not the only one who’s vulnerable here. What about me?”

  She sat very still, with her legs still across his lap, one hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat along at a normal pace.

  “Do you think we’re both going to end up hurt when this is over?” she asked.

  He gave no reply.

  “Each of us will lose our best friend then, won’t we?” she asked in a diminished voice.

  He remained st
one still. “You seem awfully sure this is going to be over someday.”

  Lee’s mind ticked off the paramount reasons it would be: His age. Her age. Mother. Janice. What other outcome was possible? Surely someday there would be a painful breakup.

  “Is this just a temporary fling for you, Lee?” he asked.

  Now it was her turn to sit absolutely still.

  “Is it?” he asked. When she made no reply, he pressed his point. “Are you waiting to get over your infatuation with me so you never have to tell your family?”

  She pulled back sharply, looking up toward his shadowed face. “I don’t know what you mean,” she answered.

  He rolled his head and looked at her. “You know something, Lee? That’s the first lie I’ve ever heard you tell.”

  She bristled and lurched up from the couch, but he caught her arm and hauled her back against his side.

  “Forget it,” he said. “Tonight isn’t the time to discuss it, right after you’ve had such a bad day anyway. I brought some pie. You want some pie? It’s cream cheese and apple.”

  “I’m not in the mood right now.” She rose with no resistance from him and walked out of the room. Left behind, he sighed and pulled himself to the edge of the sofa almost wearily, dropping his elbows to his knees and considering the situation for several minutes before pushing to his feet and following her to the kitchen.

  She had put away the leftover macaroni and cheese and stood at the kitchen sink staring out the black window.

  “Lee,” he said with a note of apology, dropping a hand on her nape.

  She stood stiffly beneath it. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, neither do I. Once people know about us everything will change, and I don’t want that.”

  “All right.” He dropped his hand from her. “All right. I just thought it might be easier if we were honest with them, and we could stop sneaking around.”

  They stood in the kitchen refusing to look at each other, wondering exactly what they wanted. Starting an affair was the simple part; continuing it was more difficult. If it were to be a temporary fling and nothing more, there was no reason for her children to know. If it was not, this was too soon to talk about it.