Home Song (10 page)

When Erin finished her lunch and left them alone, sitting side by side at the long table, Tom immediately observed a shift in their demeanor. They looked at each other more openly. They began speaking, and by the looks of it they weren't discussing their afternoon classes.

Maybe his guilt was making him paranoid. After all, they'd only met last Thursday, and they'd seen each other exactly twice.

But if the chemistry was right, twice could do it.

As casually as possible, he walked over and stood behind them in his usual lunchroom stance, arms crossed and shoulders relaxed.

“Looks like you two enjoyed your lunches.”

Like a mirror and its reflection, they shot glances back over their shoulders.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Gardner.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“How's your first day going, Kent?”

“Just fine, sir. Chelsea's keeping me from getting lost.”

Chelsea explained, “They didn't have a computer system in his last lunchroom, so I showed him how it works.”

Tom glanced at the wall clock. “Better get going, though. Classes start again in four minutes.”

“Oh!” She leaped up and grabbed her tray. “I hadn't even noticed! Come on, Kent, I'll show you where to put your dirty dishes.”

They went off without a goodbye, leaving Tom staring after them and wondering if he was being overanxious in worrying about any kind of teenage crush between them. Five days. They'd known each other five days, and Chelsea
had never been the kind to get gaga over boys at the drop of a hat. If anything, she was more sensible than most of her classmates. Tom and Claire had discussed it often, how lucky they were that their daughter wasn't the kind who got boy crazy and let it affect her good judgment or her grades.

Still, when he'd walked up behind them and spoken, they'd both jumped.

 

Tom spent the remainder of his day settling a rash of early-school problems. He nailed down a short-term sub for the teacher who'd gotten the better job offer elsewhere and spoke to the district office about getting more desks for Mrs. Rose's room. He took a call from a reporter at the local newspaper, gave comments on the coming school year, and set up ongoing tracking between himself and the paper for the rest of the year. A police officer dropped by with complaints from the homeowners near school, who were upset about students ignoring parking restrictions on their street. And in between all these duties he managed to speak to eighteen students who were sent to his office for everything from getting caught smoking in the lavatories to requesting a student parking permit. At 3:02
P
.
M
., when the seventh and last period ended, he did his stint in the hall, then returned to his office, where two sets of parents were waiting to speak to him. At 3:40 he arrived ten minutes late for a social studies department meeting, then afterward went back to his desk to return a half hour's worth of phone calls, including one from Coach Gorman about accessing the varsity football games on the local community cable channel.

At the end of the conversation Gorman remarked, “That new kid, Kent Arens? He's working out really fine, Tom. What a powerhouse! Must've been coached by somebody who knew his business because the kid's a real worker. Man,
he lit a fire under the whole offensive line! Thanks for sending him down, Tom. He's going to make a major difference on our team.”

“Well, Bob, I was a coach once myself. We can usually spot the good ones, can't we?”

When he'd hung up, Tom sat at his desk staring at the pictures on his window ledge, recalling Chelsea and Kent in the lunchroom in the middle of some intense discussion. Hell, the boy would probably turn out to be a hero on the football field, too, making him twice as attractive to Chelsea. And she was a cheerleader. How in the world could he keep the two of them apart if there really was a budding attraction between them?

He sighed and ran a hand over his face, tipping back in his chair, tired after the hectic day, worrying about this personal dilemma on top of all the snags and problems inherent in the
first week
.

He glanced at his watch, startled to discover it was already ten after six. He dialed home and Claire answered.

“Hi, it's me.”

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I just looked at my watch. Didn't realize it was so late.”

“Are you leaving now?”

“Yup, be there in a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay, but . . . Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Can you stay home tonight?”

“Sorry, honey, I've got to be back at school at seven for a Parents' Advisory Committee meeting.”

“Oh . . . well, then.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“I really am sorry, Claire.”

“Oh, it's okay. I understand.”

“See you in a few minutes.”

He sighed, pushed back from the desk, snapped out the fluorescent lights, and headed home. She'd held supper for him and was scooping pasta into a serving bowl when he walked in the door. He hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair, moved close behind her, and pecked her on the neck. “Hey, darlin', what's for supper?”

“Chicken with fettuccine. Sit down.” She raised her voice as she swung clear and carried the food to the table. “Kids! Supper's ready!”

He loosened his tie and took his customary place at one end of the table. When they were all seated and the bowls were being passed, Tom said cheerfully, “So . . . how was everybody's first day?”

“Mine was great!” Chelsea replied with enthusiasm.

“I got that spacehead Mr. Galliaupe for government class.” Robby was going through a negative stage that was testing everybody's patience.

“Why do you say he's a spacehead?” Tom asked.

“Oh, jeez, Dad, everybody knows it but you! Look at the way he dresses! And he talks like a geek.”

“Not every guy dresses cool like Dad,” Chelsea put in. “Right, Mom?”

“Yeah, right.” Claire's glance stopped on her husband. “So how was your day?” she asked.

Tom replied, “Busy, but okay, as opening days go. How about yours?”

“I had enough desks for everyone, nobody called me ‘Yo,' and I think I'll have some fairly intelligent students in my classes.”

Chelsea said, “So what do you think of Kent Arens?”

Robby interrupted. “Everybody knows what
you
think of
him, don't they? I hear you're eating lunch with him already.”

Some subtle change warned Claire to watch Tom—a barely perceptible squaring of his shoulders, a pause as he reached toward the butter dish with his knife, the quick glance at her, and the quicker glance away. In those two brief seconds she could have sworn what she sensed was fear, yet what could he possibly be afraid of? They'd only been talking about a new student whom Tom himself had been praising last week.

Claire filled her plate with pasta while pushing the subject of Kent Arens. “He's got wonderful manners, he seems very bright, and he's not afraid to participate in class. I found out that much already.”

Chelsea couldn't resist badgering her brother, “So what if I ate lunch with him? I'm his official partner, you moron.”

“Yeah, and pretty soon you'll probably be his unofficial partner. Better watch it, Chels.”

“Dad, would you tell your son what it means to be a partner in this school? Not that he'd ever spend any time finding out for himself. He's too busy in the weight room, making his neck as thick as his head.”

Once again Claire carefully watched her husband, surprised by his reaction. She knew Tom too well to mistake the fluster in his face, the telltale stretching of his jaw, as if his shirt collar didn't fit correctly. He always did that when he was feeling guilty about something. When he caught her studying him, he focused on his plate and spoke to the children. “All right, you two. That's enough. Chelsea, it
is
a little early in the school year for . . . well, for pairing up. Your mom and I have always been so happy that you put schoolwork before boys. I hope that won't change this year.”

“Da-add!” Chelsea gave the word two syllables, her eyes and mouth petulant with dismay. “I don't believe what I'm hearing! All I did was show him how to use the computer in the lunchroom! Is there anything wrong with that?”

“No, honey, there isn't. It's just . . . well . . .” Tom's gaze flickered to Claire, then dropped. “Forget it.”

Claire put in, “He does seem to be a nice boy, Tom. You said so yourself.”

“Okay, okay!” He jumped to his feet and headed for the sink to rinse his plate. “Forget it, I said!”

For heaven's sake
, Claire thought,
his face is red!

“There's dessert,” she offered, following him with her eyes.

“None for me.” He hurried away toward the bathroom, this man who loved desserts, leaving Claire with the distinct impression he was escaping.

 

He left for his evening meeting at a quarter to seven. Robby went off to the Woodbury Mall to pick up a few school supplies, and Chelsea went to Erin's house to make pom-poms.

Left alone, Claire folded a load of clothes that had been left in the dryer, ironed a couple of wrinkled blouses, and sat down at the kitchen table to read the four-line poems she'd had her honors students compose today about any one hour during their summer.

The first one read:

Into a rocket

On a river I stepped

And careened to the bottom

But never got wet.

She supposed the student had been out at Valleyfair amusement park.

She had read only that one before she found herself thumbing through the papers in search of Kent Arens's, wondering if perhaps she might find in his poem a clue to what had upset Tom so.

A thousand lonely miles away

A new house waits. I dread this day.

Eighteen wheels and a big blue van

Changing me from boy to man
.

A lonely boy, leaving his friends and familiarity behind, studying a new house on moving day. It struck a chord of sympathy for Kent but gave no clue to what had rattled Tom so.

She read a dozen more poems, then returned to Kent's and read it three times before rising from the table and roaming around the kitchen listening to the rain, worrying.

Why had Tom gotten so upset?

The house was quiet, the drizzle so steady, collecting on the screens and blurring the view of the twilit yard. The air was damp and oppressive. It seemed to seal the faint cooking smells into the room until they tinged the walls, the curtains, even Claire's clothing.

She had been married to Tom for eighteen years and knew him as well as she knew herself. What had been bothering him in Duluth was still bothering him today, only it was getting worse. Tom Gardner was guilty of something: she knew that as surely as she knew that his favorite part of dinner was dessert.

If it was another woman, what would she do?

At 8:30 she telephoned Ruth. “Ruth, are you busy? Are you alone? May I come over?”

Ruth had lived there since the children were small, had baby-sat Robby and Chelsea when Claire first went back to work, had been there with hugs and help when Claire's mother had died. Ruth had never missed one of Claire's birthdays in sixteen years, bringing cards and thoughtful gifts. Once when Claire was in bed with a terrible flu, Ruth had brought supper over every day for two weeks.

More important, Ruth was the only person who knew that Claire had once been tempted by John Handelman when they were supervising the class play together, and that sometimes when Tom got really busy at school Claire wished he had a different job, and that she worked very hard at squelching her resentment over the evenings he had to spend there. Claire had also confided in Ruth the fact that she had been pregnant when she married Tom and that because of this she harbored a deep-seated insecurity that she hid from the rest of the world.

Ruth Bishop was that person with whom Claire had forged a bond of friendship whose borders were elastic. Whatever the need or the time of day, Ruth Bishop was there.

They sat at opposite ends of a tuxedo sofa in Ruth's den while Chopin played softly on the tape deck and Ruth stitched needlepoint.

“Where's Dean?”

“Working out at the club . . . he says.”

“Have the two of you talked yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm sure now about the other woman. I drove over to the health club and waited in the car till he came
out with her. I saw him kiss her goodbye before she got in her car and drove away.”

“Oh, Ruth . . .” Claire's voice fell. “I was so hoping this was all in your imagination.”

“Well, it's not. It's pretty damned real.”

“And you didn't say anything to Dean?”

“No, and I won't either. Let him bring it up, if he's man enough. If he's not, let him live with me and suffer. I hope he does, because I know I am.”

“Oh, Ruth, you don't mean that. You can't really go on knowing about a thing like this and not talk about it.”

“Oh, yes I can. You just watch me! I don't want to end up like the divorcees I know, going through all that turmoil in the courts, dividing property, losing my home and my husband, and making my kids choose sides. We're less than ten years away from retirement, Dean and I, and where do I end up if I lose him? I'll be a lonely old woman with nobody to travel with, or eat with or sleep with or do anything with, to say nothing about living on a single retirement income. I figure, with a little luck, maybe this thing is just a passing fling with him and it'll blow over soon and the kids will never have to know about it. I don't want them to know, Claire. I don't want them to stop loving him, no matter what he's done. Can you understand that?”