Hester sighs and says in an elaborately patient tone, “I don’t want to be fighting with you. If what it takes for you to realize you’re wrong is a little time, take the papers home. Look them over. We can talk about it rationally next time.”
“I won’t change my mind,” I tell her.
She stands up and shoves the sheaf of papers over the table at me. “Then you’ve lost your mind. I’ll see you Tuesday. I’ll call you about where to pick up Cal.” She reaches into the diaper bag and pulls out a crisp fifty. “Here, this should cover the meal.”
“Keep it,” I snap. Again with the fifty-dollar bill. What did Pop do, tip her?
“No. You keep it. You can put it toward Cal’s college fund. Maybe he’ll end up going, even though you never will.” She tosses the bill on the table, turns, and marches away, her ponytail swinging behind her.
ALICE
“For keeps? I mean . . . from now on? Forever?”
Tim, hands jammed in pockets, is looking out at the ocean, not at me. He’s barely met my eyes since he caught me as I was stretching after this morning’s run, and said, “We have to talk.”
Alarm buzzer, sirens, whistles. That’s my line. The warm-up to “this isn’t working.” But our this only just started. And it’s working for me, more than working. I’m Brad now, blindsided in the driveway?
“Not here,” he added as Patsy pressed her nose against the screen door, calling “Hon” imperiously.
Tim insisted we go to the beach. Then said we should walk out to the lighthouse. Went on ahead of me so I had to scramble over the jagged rocks to catch up with his rapid strides. When he finally turned to face me, his shoulders were hunched, his face closed-off, as though expecting anger or criticism. Then he told me what happened with Hester. What he wanted with Cal.
His voice shook, he stumbled a little when he started off, but got calmer and calmer, quietly resolved, as he kept going.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. He needs me. I need to do this. I mean, I did this. And I can’t—just—act as if I didn’t and move on. Here’s my chance to fix things, to get something right.”
“For you or for Cal?”
Tim’s eyes are practically blazing with determination. “See, that’s the thing, there’s no separating us. I’m what he has. He’s what I have.”
The craggy rock we’re standing on, still wet from the last high tide, with a few globs of sea lettuce snagged on outcroppings, is not made for pacing around. I do it anyway, trying to jam this new fact into the picture I had of my life now.
My . . . boyfriend. My . . . Tim—not just a dad as a footnote in his life, a season. For keeps. Cal’s father, for good, with all that means. No hand-offs to Hester. The crib a permanent fixture in the bedroom—until Cal’s old enough for a big-boy bed. Tim needing to find daycare if he graduates from high school and goes to college. (Will he? How can he?) If he gets another job. Needing babysitters if we want to go out together at night. Responsible for immunizations and introducing Cal to solid food and potty-training and all the steps I know so well, all the duties and chores and worries and things I thought were only part of my life for a little while longer—and simply because I was subbing for someone else.
Tim, a father by his eighteenth birthday.
Me.
And baby makes three. Ha.
I sit down abruptly on the rock, barely feeling the seawater seep slowly through the seat of my jeans.
He slides down near me, but not too close, his legs dangling over the edge, tracing the seam of his jeans.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, addressing his knee.
“I doubt that.” Since I myself have no idea.
“I knew it as I was saying it—to Hester. It’s too much. The last thing you need. Now what you signed on for—which was, of course, my striking good looks and massive amounts of testosterone, not the byproduct of those things. I get it. But, Alice—what else can I do?”
He’s trying for a light tone, but it falls flat, and his eyes are shadowed.
I fold my legs up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, rest my chin there. Look at him.
The straight nose with a few freckles, his hair, slightly too long again, the dark eyelashes, downcast, the tall, rangy body . . . already older-looking than he was a month or two ago.
“I won’t hold it against you—walking away. I hope we can stay—”
“Don’t you dare give me the ‘friends’ speech, Tim Mason.”
“We’re not even that? Shit, Alice. Okay. Okay. I get it.”
“You can’t get it. Because I haven’t gotten it yet. You have to give me a little sink-in time.”
His eyes, startled, move to mine.
“Another new ballgame. It’s a lot. Give me time to get used to this.” Another wave, another changed landscape.
“I’ll give you anything it takes,” he says. “All I’ve got.”
“I know,” I say somberly. Give his shoulder a small shove. “You had to do it, didn’t you? Get all responsible on me.”
“No one has ever said, least of all me, that my timing doesn’t completely suck.”
It’s after eleven: everyone’s asleep. Except me and George. He had a nightmare about clowns, and I’ve been going around and around in circles about bills and banks and Grace Reed. So we’re huddled under Great Aunt Alice’s big crocheted bedspread in the living room, and I’m reading George my favorite fairy tale, The Snow Queen. Gerda, the best fairy tale heroine. No sitting around waiting to try on slippers—nope, off to the coldest place on earth to rescue the hero.
Georgie likes Gerda too, that she and Kai, the hero, live next door to one another. “Like Jase and Sam did.” He cozies closer just as there’s a muffled knock at the door and a rattle of the doorknob. It’s got to be Tim—who else would show up at this hour?
But it’s Samantha, bundled into a rumpled letter jacket I recognize as Jase’s, her hair all windblown.
George throws his arms around her knees, tells her he loves her, and asks what she thinks of clowns. She doesn’t even seem to hear him. She’s red-faced and I can’t tell if that’s the cold or the wind until I look into her eyes, which are almost glimmering. Not with tears, though.
Anger.
George tugs on the bottom of her jacket. “Sailor Supergirl, Jase is sleeping. I checked on him because I had a bad dream but he wouldn’t wake up. His mouth was a little open, but don’t worry ‘cause that thing that people tell you about how you swallow spiders when you sleep? That’s made up. Like no bubblegum trees growing in your stomach if you swallow gum.”
“George—that’s good about the spiders. But I need to speak to Alice.” She smiles at him but is talking so rapidly, her words run together as if she’s out of breath. Her eyes focus on me.
My little brother agrees to go back to bed if I pinkie swear that he can watch two episodes of “Animal Odd Couples” tomorrow. And if I promise there will be no clowns involved. He backs upstairs slowly, adding new demands: “And ice cream after breakfast? No, for breakfast. Promise?”
The moment his footsteps fade away, Sam says, “My mom. I found out she’s been filling out my college applications herself. All to colleges far, far away, of course.”
Seems to me this newsflash could wait till morning, even though it just adds to the Ten Things I Hate About Grace Reed list.
“But that’s not even it. It’s another thing—she told me that you’d come over to talk about the bills, Alice. I checked with Tim and he said it was true, that she stonewalled, and I’m done letting that happen. It’s not okay. I know what happened with your dad. I saw it. Well, I was asleep but I knew something was wrong—and I didn’t—well, I came to say that I’ll . . . go to the police or whatever. Whatever it takes.”
Before she’s halfway through this speech, I’m pacing around the kitchen table, putting my hands in my hair and pulling, picking up an abandoned paper towel and shredding it.
Sam watches me, suddenly amused. “Y
ou want a cigarette? You look exactly like Tim.”
“Ha,” I say.
“He says that one too.”
“Sam, are you really willing to do that? This? The police, everything?”
“Yes,” she says—no hesitation. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Since the accident. It’s . . . I can’t stop thinking about it, Alice. And now this.” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “But Tim said that you guys should talk with her first. Because if . . . if things go bad, if there’s a trial, big-time lawyer bills”—Sam winces, shakes her head—“your family bills will be put on the backburner. Maybe forever.”
“Damn, he’s good,” I say.
Sam laughs, looking much more like herself. “He’d be the first to tell you that.”
“Yeah, but the last to believe it,” I say.
She tilts her head, serious again. “You get him, Alice. I’m glad.”
Like Tim with Cal, I see no other way. There is no other way. But instead of doing something out of a warm and open heart, I’m doing this because I am the only one cold enough. And it has to be just me—he’s got Cal and Hester to handle.
When she opens the door, I brush past her, down the white hallway. I don’t take off my shoes.
This time she doesn’t offer a refreshing drink, small talk.
Nothing but her gaze, level on mine, moving to the stack of bills I set, yet again, on the glass-topped table. “These are copies. There are more than there were last time.”
“I see that.”
“I’ve seen this.” I take the Stony Bay Bugle clipping off the top of the stack and hold it out to her. “‘Former State Senator Stirs Speculation About a Return to the Stage.’”
“Yes. I’ve been approached for that state treasurer position. I make a difference in politics, Alison. I help people. I don’t believe it’s right to turn my back on that.” She walks over to the tall arched window that looks out on her green lawn, still emerald even though we’re well into fall. Not a fallen leaf on it.
“I’m not asking you to understand. You’re still very young. It takes more perspective than you have to see that the greater good—”
“Senator, I’m not here for a debate. Here are the bills. You want to be treasurer? This is the perfect place to start. I talked to Samantha. It turns out your daughter would feel worse about Jase’s father not getting the care he needs than about her needing to change schools. So, she’s fine with going to SBH.”
Grace looks at me sharply. “Where my daughter goes to school is hardly your decision to make.”
“I know. The decision is hers. So is the one to go to the police as a witness to the accident you were involved in that landed my dad in the hospital. She’s fine with doing that too.”
Grace Reed is already pale as the Snow Queen. You’d think she couldn’t get any more parchment-white. But she manages.
“You had absolutely no right to get involved in this.”
“I didn’t?” I laugh. “You stopped paying the bills. If it wasn’t me, it would be Jase himself. We’re all involved. My whole family is. So I need your word, and, actually, more than that. I need your signature on a piece of paper that says you will pay these bills, and any more that come, as long as they come. If not, Samantha will be changing schools. It’ll give her a lot more time with my brother.”
The last was an impulse. I really am made of ice.
I have a check in my pocket, folded along with the paper with her signature, when she walks me to the door. As I turn to leave, she rests a hand on my shoulder, very briefly. To my horror, there is almost a look of admiration on her face.
“You’d make a good politician, Alison.” She smiles at me, all charm. “You remind me of myself.”
God forbid.
Chapter Thirty-nine
TIM
Waldo Connolly opens the door wearing a dress.
Not sure I can handle this.
On closer examination, it’s like a really long shirt—goes past his knees, and is loose, with little mirrors around the neckline. Not a dress, but still.
“C’mon in. Hester should be back soon.” He turns, shirt flapping behind him, exposing hairy-as-hell legs. If he weren’t relatively tall, I’d think he really was a hobbit. I follow, lugging the car seat and Cal. Starting to feel like my left arm is longer than my right from carrying this thing.
Get used to it.
Alice isn’t the only one who still needs sink-in time.
Pop will totally stroke out about this.
Nano is definitely getting my college fund.
I set the car seat down and flop into the puffy chair next to it. A cloud of dust rises up, motes whirling in the air coming in from the high window, as crazy in motion as my thoughts.
Waldo puts on a kettle, hauls something that looks like a palm frond out of the fridge, and picks up his trusty machete. Chop. Chop. “You want to serve as a father to this child.”
“Yeah. Sir. I mean, I already am. But I mean—from now on. Yes. I just want a little time to know for sure.”
Chop. “That sounds brave. Maybe it is brave. But how’s it going to work? Are you going to open your world and rearrange it around this baby? Put Calvin between you and your horizon?” Chop-chop. “You ready to put your money where your love is?”
Could this guy sound a little less like a fortune cookie on acid?
My throat hurts. Also my stomach, which it pretty much has ever since I said no to Hester. And told Alice what’s up. Maybe I’m getting an ulcer? Waldo sweeps the junk he’s hacked up and puts it in the teakettle, turns the flame on with a quick twist of his wrist. Looks like lawn clippings.
“Look,” I say. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re saying here, but . . . you may think I just . . . do shit without thinking, but that’s not it. Maybe Hester can move on and forget about it. But not me. I’m not that guy. Uh, now. I don’t even need to see her. I’m only here to get the rest of Cal’s stuff.”
Waldo moves back against the counter and looks at me, his face impassive. He reaches behind his back with one hand, without taking his eyes off me. Is he going for the machete? But no, he’s just got some kind of tea strainer thing.
“You’ve bonded with this baby.”
“Haven’t you? You’re the one who told Hester to keep him for a while.”
“I’m sixty-four, Tim. I’ve learned that those irrevocable decisions deserve time. Michelle, Hester’s mother, wasn’t married when she had Hester. She regretted a lot about her choices. Hester’s too young to start racking up more should-have’s.” He turns, pouring steamy hot water and lawn clippings into two gray-blue pottery mugs. He offers me one, hoists it like he’s toasting me. “To the truth of our hearts, which can chain us down.”
He puts his mug on the table, rests his chin on his palms, and does that intent-stare thing from under his bristly eyebrows. I stare back. He can blink first.
“Have you and Hester talked about Alex Robinson?”
Who? Oh, right, Hester’s old boyfriend who did the long-distance-dump routine. Favorite tool of dickheads and douchebags everywhere.
“Sorta.”
“Maybe you should explore that cave with a stronger light.” Waldo reaches for a jar of honey and twist-pours some into his tea with this weird wooden spoon.
He sounds serious, his tone the way people’s voices get when they’re breaking bad news. I don’t know why, but coldness crawls over me, icy-sharp, though the kitchen air is heavy with lemony steam.
“Could we cut the crap here?” I ask. “What exactly are you saying?”
Waldo scrubs his hand through his thatch of graying hair. “Alex and Hester were together for a long time.” Now he’s dropped his hand, paying unnecessarily careful attention to stirring his tea. Silence, except this thumping noise.
So?
What does that . . .
“I didn’t hear any talk of you until the baby was a few weeks old.”
Again, so?
“Until then
, Hester was very insistent on him being Alex’s.” He stirs his tea some more, spoon clinking against the side of the mug. “She didn’t bring you up to me until Calvin’s hair started coming in.”
The thumping is my heart.
“That’s it, though—he’s got my hair and . . .”
Waldo says nothing, heaving himself away from the counter as though he’s suddenly gained mass. He pads out of the room, coming back a few minutes later with a picture in his hand. He passes it to me.
“I’ll give you that the baby looks a hell of a lot more like you. Still, this is Hester’s dad. Mike Pearson.”
I check out the picture. In it, Hester’s mother, still looking like Madonna: The Early Years, is laughing, one dimple grooving deep in her cheek, cleft cut hard in her chin, her head with its teased, streaky brown-blond hair resting on the pale stomach of a guy with his shirt off. A guy with puffy hair nearly as long as hers. As red as my own.
“You want plain talk? A conversation needs to happen between you and Hester.”
Got caught in a riptide once and this is just like that, if the water burned and clung like just-poured tar. Everything’s hazy with heat.
He looks just like me.
His hair. His dimple. His chin.
Everyone says.
Everyone but Nan. But what does she know—she’s probably high.
Waldo’s taken his tea, gone upstairs, humming under his breath, like he hadn’t just used that machete on me.
Fist my hands into my hair, pull hard, slump back in the chair, then jump back up and stare at the kid. Look and look and look some more. Watch this quick smile race across his face when I move one finger down his cheek, see how he curls closer, grabs tight to my thumb without waking—even though he’s usually restless and quick to wake up—like me, like me—bending his head close to my forearm, so sure I’m there. Now I get it, the goddamn all of it, that he’s mine, that I made him, that I love him.