Bygones (11 page)

He set down his cup, released a weary sigh and settled his shoulders against the back of the chair.

“All right, Bess, I'll try.”

* * *

On the way home from White Bear Lake, Randy acted surly.

Bess said, “Do you want to tell me what's on your mind?”

He cast her a glance, returned his eyes to the road and went on driving.

“Randy?” she prodded.

“What's going on with you and the old man?”

“Nothing. And don't call him the old man. He's your father.”

Randy tossed a glance out his side window and whispered, “Shit.”

“He's trying to make amends to you, can't you see that?”

“Great!” Randy shouted. “All of a sudden he's my father and I'm supposed to kiss his ass when for six years you haven't kept it any secret that you hate his guts.”

“Well, maybe I was wrong. Whatever I felt, maybe I shouldn't have imposed those feelings on you.”

“I've got a mind of my own, Ma. I didn't need to pick up vibes from you to realize that what he did was shitty. He was screwing another woman and he broke up our home!”

“All right!” Bess shouted and repeated, more calmly, “All right, he was but there's such a thing as forgiveness.”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing. He's getting to you, isn't he? Pulling out your chair and making toasts and cozying up to you over the dinner table just as soon as his other wife throws him over. He makes me sick.”

Guilt struck Bess for having instilled such hate in her son without a thought for its effect on him. Bitterness such as he felt could stultify his emotions in dozens of other ways.

“Randy, I'm sorry you feel this way.”

“Yeah, well, it's a pretty quick switch, isn't it, Mom? Less than a week ago you felt the same way. I'd just hate to see him make a fool of you a second time.”

She felt a surge of exasperation with him for voicing what she'd thought, and with herself for being culpable. After all it was true she had felt flashes of cupidity at given moments tonight.

Let this be a lesson, she thought, and if you mend fences between yourself and Michael, keep your distance while doing it.

* * *

The following day was Sunday. There was Mass in the morning, prefaced by a battle to make Randy get up and go, followed by a lonely lunch for two—a pair of sad, bald, diet chicken breasts and baked potatoes with no sour cream for Bess and very little table conversation out of Randy. He left immediately afterward, said he was going to his friend Bernie's house to watch the NFC playoff games on TV.

When he was gone the house grew silent. Bess cleaned up the kitchen, changed into a sweat suit and returned downstairs, where the silent, familyless rooms held a gloom that was only amplified by bright day beating at the windows. She did some design work for a while but found concentrating difficult and finally rose from the dining-room table to wander from window to window, staring out at the wintry yard, the frozen river, a squirrel's nest in the neighbor's oak tree, the blue shadows of her own maple branches on the pristine snow. She sat down to resume her work but gave up once more, distracted by thoughts of Michael and their sundered family. She meandered into the living room, played middle C on the piano and held it till it dissolved into silence.

Once more she returned to the window to stare out with her arms folded across her chest.

In a yard several doors down a group of children were sledding.

When Randy and Lisa were little she and Michael had taken them one Sunday afternoon much like this one—a sterling, bright, blinding day—to Theodore Wirth Park in Minneapolis. They'd taken red plastic boat-shaped sleds, sleek and fast, and chosen a hill with fresh, unbroken snow. On their first glissade down the hill Michael's sled had slewed one hundred and eighty degrees and had carried him the remainder of the way backwards. At the bottom he'd hit a slight hummock, gone tail over teakettle and rolled to a stop looking like a snowman. He'd grown a beard and moustache that year; they and his hair were totally covered with snow. His cap was gone. His glasses were miraculously in place but behind them his eyes were completely covered with white.

When he'd finally sat up, looking like Little Orphan Annie, they had all rolled with laughter, collapsing on their backs in the snow and hooting themselves breathless.

Years later, when their marriage was losing its mortar, he'd said disconsolately, “We never do anything fun anymore, Bess. We never laugh.”

In the yard next door all the children had run away and left one small bundled-up individual behind, crying.

You and me, Bess thought, left behind to cry.

She turned away from the window and went into the family room, where the fireplace was cold and the Sunday
Pioneer Press Dispatch
was strewn on the sofa. With a sigh she picked up the sections and began aligning them. Disconsolately she abandoned the job and dropped to a chair with the papers forgotten in her hand.

In silence she sat.

Wondering.

Withering.

Wasting.

She was not a tearful person, yet her aloneness had magnitude enough to force a pressure behind her eyes. It drove her in time to pick up the telephone and dial her mother.

Stella Dorner answered in her usual cheerful two-note greeting. “Hel-lo.”

“Hello, Mother, it's Bess.”

“Well, isn't this nice? I was just thinking of you.”

“What were you thinking?”

“That I haven't talked to you since last Monday and it was time I called you.”

“Are you busy?”

“Just watching the Minnesota Vikings get whipped.”

“Could I come over? I'd like to talk to you.”

“Of course. I'd love it. Can you stay for supper? I'll make some of those barbecued pork chops you love with the onion and lemon on them.”

“That sounds good.”

“Are you coming right away?”

“As soon as I get my shoes on.”

“Good. See you soon, dear.”

Stella Dorner lived in a townhouse on Oak Glen Golf Course on the western edge of Stillwater. She had bought it within a year after her husband died, and had furnished it with sassy new furniture, declaring she hadn't been buried along with him and wasn't going to act as if she had. She'd continued her job as an on-call operating-room nurse at Lakeview Memorial Hospital, though she was nearly sixty at the time; had taken up golf lessons and joined a ladies' league at Oak Glen, the church choir at St. Mary's and the African Violet Society of America, which met quarterly in various places all over the Twin Cities. She went as often as she pleased to visit her daughter Joan in Denver, and once took a trip to Europe (on a Eurail Pass) with her sisters from Phoenix and Coral Gables; she often went on organized bus tours to places such as the Congden Mansion in Duluth and the University of Minnesota Arboretum in Jonathan; spent time at least once a week visiting the old folks at the Maple Manor nursing home and baking cookies for them. She played bridge on Mondays, watched
thirtysomething
on Tuesdays, went to bargain matinee movies most Wednesdays and got a facial every Friday. She had once signed up with a dating service but claimed all the old farts she'd been paired up with couldn't keep up with her and she didn't want any ball and chain around her foot.

Her townhouse reflected her spirit. It had three levels, long expanses of glass and was decorated in peach, cream and glossy black. Entering it, Bess always felt a shot of vitality. Today was no different. In the ten minutes since Bess's call, Stella had the place smelling like baking pork chops.

She answered the door dressed in a sweat suit the colors of a paint rag—a white background with smears of hot pink, yellow, green and purple, all strung together with black squiggles and dribbles. Over it she wore a disreputable lavender smock. She had coarse salt-and-pepper hair, styled only by gravity. It fell into a crooked center part and dropped in two irregular waves to jaw level. She had a habit of pushing it back by making a caliper of one hand and hooking both temple waves at once. She did so as she greeted her daughter. “Bess . . . darling . . . this is wonderful. I'm so glad you called.” She was shorter than Bess and reached up to hug her gingerly. “Careful! I don't want to get any paint on you.”

“Paint?”

“I'm taking an oil-painting class. I was working on my first picture.” She performed the caliper move on her hair once more while closing the door.

“How in the world do you find time?”

“A person should always find time for the things he likes.” Stella led the way inside, where the west window light was strong but unreached yet by the afternoon sun, which lit the snow-laden golf course beyond. Facing the window was a long sofa upholstered in coral calla lilies on a cream background. One wall was filled with an ebony entertainment unit, where the football game was in progress on TV. The tables were ebony frames with glass tops. Before the sliding glass doors stood an easel with a partially finished rendering of an African violet.

“What do you think?” Stella asked.

“Mmm . . .” Removing her jacket, Bess studied the painting. “Looks good to me.”

“It probably won't be but what the heck. The class is fun, and that's the object.” Stella walked over and turned down the television volume. “Can I get you a Coke?”

“I'll get it. You keep on with your work.”

“All right, I will.” She pushed back her hair and picked up a paintbrush while Bess went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Can I fix you one?”

“No thanks, I'm having tea.” Beside Stella, a waist-high folding table held her mug and tubes of paint. She reached for the mug, drank from it while studying her artwork and called, “How are the kids?”

“That's what I came to talk to you about.” Bess entered the room sipping her pop, slipped off her black loafers and propped her back against one end of the long sofa, drawing her feet up and resting her glass on her knees. “Well . . . part of what I came to talk to you about.”

“Oh-oh. This sounds serious.”

“Lisa's getting married . . . and she's expecting a baby.”

Stella studied her daughter for several seconds. “Maybe I'd better put these paints away.” She reached for a rag and began cleaning her brush.

“No, please don't stop.”

“Don't be silly. I can do this any old time.” The brush joined some others in a tin can of turpentine before Stella removed her smock and joined Bess on the sofa, bringing her cup of tea and hooking her hair back.

“Well . . . Lisa pregnant, imagine that. That'll make me a great-grandmother, won't it?”

“And me a grandmother.”

“Spooky, isn't it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which is the least important aspect of all this. I imagine you're in shock.”

“I was but it's wearing off.”

“Does she want the baby?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Ah, that's a relief.”

“Guess what else.”

“There's more?”

“I've seen Michael,” Bess told her.

“My goodness, you have had a week, haven't you?”

“Lisa set us up. She invited us both to her apartment to announce the news.”

Stella laughed, throwing her chin up. “Good for Lisa. That girl's got style.”

“I could have throttled her.”

“How is she?”

“Happy and excited and very much in love, she assures us.”

“And how is Michael?”

“Detached again, on his way to getting another divorce.”

“Oh my.”

“He said to tell you hi. His exact words were, ‘Say hi to the old doll. I miss her.' ”

Stella saluted with her mug—“Hi, Michael”—and sipped from it, studying Bess over the rim. “No wonder you wanted to talk. Where is Randy in all this?”

“Where he's always been, very resentful, shunning his father.”

“And you?”

Bess sighed and said, “I don't know, Mother.” She shifted her gaze to her knees, where it remained for a long time before she sighed, let her head drop back and spoke to the ceiling. “I've been carrying around all this anger for six years. It's very hard to let it go.”

Stella sipped her tea and waited. Nearly a minute of silence passed before Bess looked at Stella.

“Mother, did I . . .” She paused.

“Did you what?”

“When we were getting the divorce you never said much.”

“It wasn't my place.”

“When I found out that Michael was having an affair, I wanted so badly for you to be angry for me. I wanted you to raise your fist and call him a bastard, take my side, but you never did.”

“I liked Michael.”

“But I thought you should be indignant on my behalf, and you weren't. There must have been some reason.”