In An Arid Land (4 page)

The daughter says, "Papa? Well yes, why don't you take a walk. But you'll have to put your shoes on, Papa, and your hat."

Angelica writes out a check as the daughter gets him up and helps him prepare. She guides him out the door and sends him down the drive to the sidewalk. Back inside she apologizes for her father, makes excuses for his age and the loss of his mind.

"You must look familiar to him," the daughter says. "Mother had black hair too, and wore glasses."

Angelica takes the key to her new house and leaves.

The old man, tall but stooped under his floppy hat, his trousers dragging the pavement of the sidewalk, his cane tapping, is halfway down the block when she drives by. She waves but he does not look up.

It's late October now and the leaves are changing. The town is canopied in bright shades of yellow and red. The air is crisp, easy to inhale. On the front doors of the houses in the neighborhood hang plastic images of jack-o-lanterns, skeletons, witches. In the weeks since Angelica and the boys moved in to the house life has passed peacefully and well. They have settled in, made a home with their things around them and their routines re-established. But today something is wrong, something is up.

The boys sense it as a danger. She was late to pick them up at the day care, spanked Gabe over nothing and in the car there is an ominous silence. By the time they reach the house the boys are frightened of her mood and go to their rooms to play alone.

She believes she can trace what is wrong, trace it to its origins. For lunch that day she went with several colleagues to the Union. There were six of them, four women and two men. They talked shop, complained and commiserated. It was pleasant and relaxing and they were all cheerful when they got up to leave.

But one of them, a man named Alfred who works in Admissions, a nice man, heavyset and bearded, with curly graying hair and a tiny, tiny nose, a gentle man Alfred asked her to wait a moment, he wanted to speak to her. The others grinned among themselves and as they were leaving they glanced back with knowing eyes.

Alfred, who has always been rather formal with her, said he had been meaning to speak to her for several weeks but had wanted to avoid seeming "pushy and unfair to Jorge." He wanted to know if she would "consent," it is the very word he used, to his asking her out to dinner. He thought enough time had passed and there was no point in their both being alone so often. Alfred is divorced and has a daughter he sees on weekends. He is known as a good man, an honorable man, a conscientious man, even if he is heavyset and slow of speech and just slightly on the ugly side. She has known him for many years now and has always liked him.

This, however ... this she has not expected. She has not yet even considered seeing other men. It has been so long, and even in her youth she dated very little. She and Jorge never really "dated" at all in the common way; they were acquaintances and then lovers and then married in a matter of months. And what would she talk about with some other man, even Alfred Dunn? There is nothing to her but Jorge and the boys and her work, and he knows all about her work. No, she was not ready, is not ready, doesn't even want to be ready. Besides, she has too much to do, to think about, to be going out nights.

So she said to Alfred, "Thank you but I couldn't, not yet."

"I see," said Alfred in his gentle way. "I understand."

He looked so dejected! But why? This is Angelica, only Angelica. There are plenty of others, ask them. But then, for reasons she could not fathom, she said, "Well, all right, I'll tell you what, let me think about it. Maybe."

"Oh yes, good," he said, bright and hopeful. "You really should get out more. You shouldn't sit in that house and brood."

"I don't brood, Alfred."

They looked at each other through their eyeglasses and it seemed they had reached an understanding.

All day long she thought about it and then she thought about what Jorge would think of it and then she thought only of Jorge. She thought of him deeply, intensely, selfishly. By day's end she had fashioned in her mind a model of anger and resentment toward him.
If you left me you must not have loved me and if you did not love me then you must have wanted to leave me. Isn't death, after all, simply a giving up, a getting out?

At home, after the boys have eaten their dinner in silence and been put to bed early, she goes to her room and broods in the darkness. Her body is cold and hollow. She feels weak, too weak to make decisions, too weak even to lie down, to sleep. She doesn't want to go to dinner with Alfred Dunn, she doesn't want to go to dinner with anybody; she wants Jorge to come home.

The moon is up again. At the window she looks out at the street, at the huge live oak in the yard. Jorge would have liked that tree. He was a great tree climber, an adventurer. It is then that she notices a dark figure on the sidewalk. She puts on her glasses and sees Mr. Morris standing there, resting against his cane. He is studying the house; he seems to be searching the windows for something. She steps back into the deeper shadow of her safe place and watches.

He is like a dead man come to life, a wandering shade, the pure image of loneliness. His bald head shines in the moonlight and his clothes hang on him loosely. Now he is looking down, as if in thought. Perhaps he is lost and confused, can't recall the way home. An odd and disturbing notion, for he has found his way home: to this house where he lived all those years with a wife he must have loved. Here it was they raised their children and tended their gardens and slept together in this very room. She wonders if this is what he is thinking, if this is what he is

remembering, and if in the vapors of his senility he is searching for the key to come inside.

Soon he turns and shuffles away, tapping the sidewalk with his cane, and once again the night is empty.

"When is Daddy coming home?" Gabe wants to know.

It is the weekend. They are all on the front porch, the broad deep porch that first attracts the eye when you approach the house. Miguel is playing with his turtles but he won't allow Gabe to join him and Gabe is bored and angry and frustrated. He wants Daddy to play with him, though Mama will do. But Mama is busy; she is reading reports; she has a meeting of district recruiters on Monday and she is not prepared.

"When is Daddy coming home?" he asks again, demanding and violent this time. He stalks to Angelica's chair and shakes it.

She glances at him and answers without thinking, "Never."

Now Miguel stops his playing and looks up. They are both staring at her. Never has she said never. Never has she so directly stated the cold simple fact of it. Still, she is surprised by their response. She thought they had accepted the fact; she thought that after so much time they would have forgotten. Now she sees, as she has not seen before, her own face in the faces of these two young ones: the eyes of doubt, the brows deep and furrowed by the mystery of it.

None of them says a word. She drops her papers to the porch and snatches Gabe into her arms; she beckons Miguel to her side; she clutches at them both. Together they send up a wail of misery as the tears course down their cheeks.

And here is Mr. Morris standing on the porch steps. The boys don't notice him but Angelica is startled by his presence. She did not see him approach; he is simply there. At first this scene must strike him as humorous these three small people huddled together and weeping in broad public daylight. There is a hint of a smile on his dry thin lips. But as Angelica tries to recover, dabbing her tears, his face changes. The touch of pity returns, along with traces of compassion and tenderness. He steps up onto the porch. He looms above them.

The boys know now; they hear him; they turn. They see him and without any self-consciousness they grab him and hold him and weep anew against him, wiping their eyes on the canvas of his trousers. He touches their shoulders, pats them, speaks softly.

"I was just passing by," he says to Angelica.

Angelica stands, apologizes, tries to right the spilled appearance of her family. She tells the boys to leave Mr. Morris alone, he is not here to be soaked by their tears, but the old man shakes his head, flaps a hand, says, "It's okay."

"They miss their father."

"So do I sometimes," he says. "Even now after all these years I miss my old man. In the old days, he used to come here and we would sit on this very porch and pass the time. He helped me plant that tree." And then, embarrassed by his memories and his confiding, he says: "Hey, what's this?"

He has spied Miguel's toys scattered on the porch. He seems interested, willing. Miguel is thrilled by his interest. He wants to show, to tell. He flies to the end of the porch and slides into the toys. He calls over Mr. Morris. He lets Gabe explain one or two of the simpler aspects of the turtles' intricate parts and behavior. The old man sits among them. Presently the three of them are deep in maneuvers, the two young ones in combat with the old one. Angelica, baffled a bit but thankful, sits in her chair on the porch and watches. They play for a long time, with excitement and laughter, and Mr. Morris gallantly loses.

That night they have pizza for supper, they watch TV, and things are better.

But now comes Alfred Dunn. It is late Sunday morning when his car eases to a stop at the curb. Out he spills with a bag of donuts and The New York Times. Angelica meets him at the door, still in her robe. The boys are on the porch again. They know Alfred but act as if they don't; they act as if he is no one worth knowing. They glance up and go back to their playing.

"It's a nice day and I thought maybe . . . ." He holds up his gifts by way of finishing the sentence.

Angelica resents his dropping by but she invites him in anyway. She notices that he is clean and neat, dressed in new jeans, a new tee shirt, and his hair is still damp from the shower. Despite the morning mess of misplaced toys and clothing and pizza boxes on the coffee table, Alfred praises the house, tells her how lucky she was to find it. She agrees, says they like it, it suits them. He sits at the table. She puts on more coffee. They eat donuts and talk of work, of mutual friends.

Why is he here? What does he want?

"Angelica," he says suddenly, and he scoots his chair around the table to be closer to her. "Have you thought about what I asked you? If you won't consent to going out with me, maybe you would consent to my, well . . ." He shrugs, glances around. "Well, to my just coming here, just to be together."

Now she thinks she knows why he has come. He has taken her hand. With the other, the free hand, she holds the lapels of her robe together. She is too surprised to do more, too stunned to say no, to say anything, and he must take her silence as tacit approval. He kisses her on the lips; he touches her breast; he tries to surround her with his arms.

"Come, let's go to the bedroom," he whispers.

She can't believe what is happening. It is a Sunday morning. The boys were playing quietly. She was working quietly. Everything was as it should have been and now here is Alfred Dunnsweet Alfred Dunn, who once loaned her money, who supports her arguments in departmental meetings, who used to play softball on the same team with Jorge. Here is Alfred Dunn wanting her body, wanting her love.