Fruits of the Poisonous Tree (28 page)

That, however, was then. Now, my mother was in a wheelchair, restricted to the ground floor and reduced to watching TV, her cherished reading victimized by failing eyesight, and Leo, for all his charm and parochial success, was running the risk of becoming an overage roué, tooling around in rough-looking vintage cars and dating women who shared his disinterest in commitment.

That, in any case, was my dour state of mind as we drove up to the place. It was a mood that Leo, Gail, and my mother—when at last I was wheeled into the living room to greet her, wheelchair to wheelchair—worked instinctively to overcome, filling the evening with good food and chatter, almost to excess.

When it was finally over, and Leo was putting our mother to bed, I looked over at Gail sitting on the same sofa I’d bounced on as a child, her long legs stretched out, her head tilted back against the pillows, her hands slack beside her. She looked like a loosely assembled collection of tired body parts.

“Well, I guess that’s done.”

She gave me a sad smile. “Was it that bad?”

“No,” I admitted. “Maybe a little unreal.”

“It’s a lot to deal with, Joe. You and I aren’t the only walking wounded around here.”

I realized my sadness earlier had a secret sharer—one who’d been living here for several weeks now.

“So what’s the bad news?” I asked fatalistically.

She smiled to lighten my concern. “It’s nothing dramatic. Your mom’s starting to slow down a lot, and pretty suddenly. She has to go to the doctor more often, she gets tired more easily, her innards aren’t functioning as well as they used to… ‘I’m just winding down’ is how she put it to me—but I also think what happened to you sort of brought it into focus for both of them.”

I sighed and shut my eyes momentarily. So much happening in so short a time, leaving everyone at loose ends.

“That’s not to say she won’t live another twenty years,” Gail added hopefully, if without much conviction.

I opened my eyes and looked at her again. “And Leo?”

She paused, searching for the right words. “I think he’s worried he might lose the center of his universe.”

I thought about the butcher shop, his adulating clientele, his unending string of girlfriends, the car collection in the barn—Caddies, Mustangs, Corvairs, what-have-yous, all under tarps, all used for special occasions, like a selection of suits hung in a closet. So much window dressing for what had always been Mom and Leo. I saw for the first time the fragile thread by which Leo’s life was held together. Not that my mother’s dying would destroy him—I gave his inner strength more credit than that. But Gail was right—it would break his heart, and perhaps leave him ruing some of the choices he’d made along the way.

In that, I realized watching Gail, he wasn’t alone.

· · ·

Gail had moved a double bed into what my mother had proudly titled the library, knowing that few other farmhouses in the state had an entire room that could be so called. My father had catered to this one presumption and had lined the walls of an erstwhile parlor with floor-to-ceiling shelves, which my mother had eventually filled with an eclectic, much-read collection—a passion for the two of us of an evening, my father being content to watch the fire and smoke a pipe, while Leo built models and read car magazines.

It was the heart of the house, as far as I was concerned, and I was grateful Gail had thought of it.

I did notice, however, as I slowly and laboriously undressed, that I was not to sleep here alone. A night table by the left side of the bed had a small collection of Gail’s things, and some of her clothes were neatly piled on a nearby chair. I could tell by the wrinkled pillow next to mine that she’d been using this room for some time.

I was pleased by that, but it made me wonder how to behave. Amid all the trauma that had befallen her, and the emotional, legal, and public uproar that had attended it—not to mention what my mishap had contributed—we’d never had a chance to get privately reacquainted. The prospect of sleeping with her, along with the sexual implications that carried, made me wary.

I climbed under the covers, naked, as was my custom, the bed’s embrace a mixed blessing. Gail moved about the dimly lit room, busying herself with her few belongings, avoiding looking at me, and finally broke the palpable tension in the air by grabbing her pajamas and leaving for the bathroom down the hall.

I lay on my back, my eyes on the ceiling, listening. The couch in the living room was long and wide enough to accommodate either one of us, should the need arise. There was even my old bedroom upstairs, which is where I’d thought she’d been bunking all along.

I glanced at the small lamp by her side of the bed, wondering if it would be helpful or too suggestive to turn it off, and thought again of the upstairs bedroom. Why hadn’t she used it? Why had she instead moved in here, knowing it was the room I would occupy? Was it to get used to the idea? I imagined her lying here, as alone as I was now, considering the prospect of my eventual arrival just as I was anticipating hers. You always think these things will get easier with age.

I didn’t hear her coming in her bare feet. The door just swung open and she was standing before me, in thin cotton pajamas, her toilet bag in her hand. She gave me an awkward smile as she crossed over to the chair she’d commandeered for her things and put the bag down.

“You feeling okay? Dinner go down all right?”

I watched her standing in the middle of the room, her hands by her sides. “Yes. It was great. Where’d you get the bed?”

“Leo put it together. I think he got the frame out of the barn. I don’t know where he got the mattress. Is it comfortable enough?”

I didn’t answer, but kept looking at her. “Gail, I’d be happy to use the sofa—”

She stopped me with her hand, suddenly held up. “No. I did this on purpose. I need to find out if I can spend the night with a man and not feel afraid.” Her voice was tight but strong, her convictions overriding her own nervousness.

She moved to her side of the bed and turned off the light. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to the milky moonlight that angled in through the uncurtained window. I saw her—in vague pale shadow only—quickly remove her pajamas. She slid into the bed next to me and tentatively touched my chest with her hand. Instinctively, I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to me, reveling in the familiar way she nestled her head against my chest, the smell of her hair rich in my nose. She draped her leg over mine and I felt the softness of her naked breasts and stomach against me. At that, a sigh—almost a shudder—escaped her.

“How’s it feel?” I finally whispered.

She moved her face so her lips just touched mine. Her voice, wreathed in the sweetness of her toothpaste, was serious and thoughtful. “So far, so good.”

I kissed her gently and gave in to the best sleep I’d had in well over a month.

IN SOME RESPECTS, I FOUND
myself spending the next week groping for an elusive past. I was in search of my former well-being, the easy communication I’d once enjoyed with Gail, and the comfort I’d always assumed would be there for me in my childhood home, but whose stability now seemed threatened.

The physical therapy set the rhythm. Leo eagerly supervised the hospital-dictated routine, but I felt driven to go beyond it, and did so in private, away from those I knew would caution me not to push too hard. There were no demands on me to rehabilitate rapidly. The calls I made to the office reassured me that all was well and progressing at its own legal snail’s pace. But despite the pleasant setting, a string of inordinately balmy days, and the colorful riot of the long-awaited fall foliage, I felt somehow under pressure, as if any regained strength might soon become a crucial advantage.

Apparently, I wasn’t much good at keeping my anxiety under wraps. Pulling up a seat beside my mother one afternoon, no longer using a wheelchair but wobbly-kneed from a private workout, I was about to embark on what had become a daily ritual for the two of us—the viewing of her favorite soap operas. This time, however, she killed the sound with her remote and gave me a mother’s careful scrutiny. “Why are you pushing yourself so hard?” she asked gently.

I wasn’t surprised she’d noticed, but I still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. “I don’t know.”

“Is it Gail?” she persisted.

I looked at her in surprise. “What makes you think that?”

“She’s still in a lot of pain. Maybe you think you need to be, too.”

I was startled by the sophistication of the idea—and wondered if she might be right. Nevertheless, I made light of it, squeezing her hand. “My mother the shrink.”

She wasn’t amused. “Have you asked her what she’s feeling? It might be easier on both of you.”

I thought back over the week, at our initial night together, and at how, although tentatively, things seemed to be improving. “She’s doing well. She doesn’t brood on the attack as much—she seems more focused on getting on with things. She’s a strong person. I think she’s coming along.”

“Is she sleeping at night?” my mother asked pointedly.

“Sure—I guess so. She wasn’t at first.”

“Then why does she nap so much?”

A small, wiggling irritation began welling up inside me, as if I’d missed something obvious because I’d been distracted by my own concerns. “She’s been through a lot. Plus she takes care of me, helps Leo out at the store sometimes, and she’s still trying to run things in Brattleboro. It takes a toll.”

My mother patted my forearm. “She’s still not sleeping at night, Joey. She comes in here after you fall asleep. She plays the TV, sometimes she reads, other times I imagine she just sits on the sofa and wishes she were someone else.”

“How do you know that? Do you hear her?”

She laughed gently. “No. I’m sleeping fine. I notice things in the morning—a magazine’s been put back on another pile, a bookmark’s been moved up a hundred pages, the blanket on the back of the sofa’s folded differently than it was when we went to bed.”

I stared at her in astonishment. “The bookmark? You know what page she’s on?”

She shook her head, obviously delighted with her prowess. Her eyes, however, remained serious. She didn’t want me to miss her point. “This room is almost my entire world. The first things I noticed were obvious—the bookmark came after I started paying close attention.”

She reached out and touched my cheek, her fingertips warm and smooth. “She needs you just like you need her. Helping you to get better has let her focus on someone besides herself—it’s given her breathing room—but it’s also helped her to hide from her own demons.”

My eyes strayed to the screen. A beautiful man in beautiful clothes mouthed something to a beautiful woman and then stalked out the door. The woman stared at the camera with tear-stained eyes, her trembling mouth parted, before everything went blank for a station break.

“One last piece of motherly advice,” the soothing voice said next to me.

I looked into those old, familiar gray eyes. “Don’t stop now.”

“Just be supportive. Don’t confront her on her sleeping habits—or anything else. Time will help you out.”

· · ·

I didn’t confront Gail on her nocturnal habits that night. I joined her instead, albeit without her knowledge. A half hour after we’d turned off the light—and about five minutes after she’d slipped out of bed for her nightly vigil in the living room—I propped myself up against the pillows in the darkness and began wrestling with my own doubts. Gail’s mental health was certainly part of them—and I now knew for myself that my mother’s concerns had been well founded. But there was something else, something that had first stirred inside me the day I’d talked with Tony Brandt in the hospital gym, and which the conversation I’d had with Gail tonight—before we’d both pretended to go to sleep—had put into sharp focus.

I had taken my mother’s advice. Upon getting into bed earlier, I’d asked Gail if caring for me wasn’t merely a way for her to avoid her own problems.

She frowned at the question but didn’t get angry. “Maybe, but that’s probably not all bad. Before you were hurt, the rape was all I thought about—it took over my life.”

“And now that I’m on the mend?”

She hesitated and then sighed heavily, as if forcing herself to be polite. “I’ve been in touch with Susan. Women for Women have started a vigil to help keep Dunn honest, and they’ve held Katz’s feet to the fire so the paper doesn’t drop the issue now that Vogel is in jail. Next week WBRT is holding a half-day call-in show I’m going to be on with other women, so the whole subject of rape can be discussed in the open—”

I reached out and took her hand. Her voice had dropped to a virtual monotone—a recitation of events in somebody else’s life. “I don’t care about that, Gail. I want to know how
you’re
doing.”

She pulled her hand away, the anger finally surfacing. “That’s the point, Joe. You
should
care. Focusing on me doesn’t address the issue. It just reduces the rape to the level of a mugging, or a car accident—something to be swept under the rug after all the right words have been said.”

I thought ruefully of my mother’s advice not to set up any confrontations. “You don’t need to convert me—I’m a believer. But I also think the messenger should be as well taken care of as the message.”

Gail didn’t comment for a while. “Maybe you’re right,” she finally murmured. “I’m not doing all that well. I can’t sleep at night, and sudden noises set me off like an alarm clock. I lock the door and jam a chair under the handle every time I take a shower. And I think I’m driving Susan and the others crazy with phone calls, trying to see if there’s anything I can do.”

She let out a shuddering sigh and stared at her hands. “I thought I could beat this, Joe. I know the routine; I’ve seen others go through it. But it’s just not working.”

“Are you seeing someone who can help?”

“I was, until you got hurt. I’ve called her a couple of times since I’ve been up here, when things got really bad, but I guess I thought I could cheat there, too.”

“How bad do things get?” I asked, feeling guilty for not knowing.