The Most Dangerous Thing (15 page)

He allows himself these stories, then he goes home, where his house is a mess and his wife slumps on the sofa and there’s a faint smell, something dirty. Have the boys adopted a dog or a cat against his wishes? One day he’ll tear the house apart, find out what they’re hiding from him. They can’t be laying out for pet food, not now. He’s a good guy. He deserves a break. He has given his children everything—
everything—
and they don’t seem to know or care. He watches this new late show every night, the one about the hostages, counting off the days. He would have thought the whole thing would be over in a week, maybe two, but now the days are in the triple digits. Where’s John Wayne when you need him? Dead of cancer, going on a year now.

John Wayne, the good old Duke, is what got Tim canned at Hutzler’s last year. Tim’s stupid faggot of a boss, embarrassed by being one-upped on his knowledge of movies, joked they were going to rename the Orange County airport John Wayne
Terminal
. Tim honestly doesn’t remember what happened next, but his coworkers say he literally went over the desk, almost cleared it in one leap. They had to slap him in the face until he let go of that pencil dick’s pencil neck.

Chapter Eighteen

Spring 1980

R
ita sizes up the customers left in her section. Two young lovers. A middle-aged man, alone, stretching his coffee and cigarette. Wherever he lives, he doesn’t want to go there. Three kids in surgical scrubs, too tired to eat. The man will tip well. The lovers—that can go a lot of ways. They could be a new item, and he’ll want to impress her. Or they could be a new item and she’ll be insecure, wonder aloud if he’s leaving a big tip because he thinks the waitress is cute. Most women who have put in their time waiting tables, they don’t let their boyfriends or husbands get away with undertipping, while women who have never carried a tray get all huffy if they think the tip is too big. As for the young almost doctors—they’ll do their best, and their best will probably be about 10 percent. They will rationalize that their tab is mostly beer, as if that made it any easier to transport to the table, that their food was only so-so, even if it did get there hot and fast, which is all Rita should be judged for. Besides, everyone knows the food at Connolly’s is mediocre. It’s almost a point of pride. The food sucks, yet everyone still eats here. Even the mayor comes here regular. He was in earlier this evening, with his mother. Now
he’s
a good tipper, but Rita didn’t have him tonight. The manager spreads him around.

Rita has been at Connolly’s only five years, but she feels as if she’s part of the fixtures, a piece of the original building, in place when it opened, whenever that was. Back in the 1930s? 1920s? A long time ago. Like a lot of things in Rita’s life, its heyday was over long before she grabbed a piece of it. Oh, it’s still crowded, still beloved, but with the development of the Inner Harbor now the big thing, the owners have been put on a month-to-month lease. A smart cookie would get out before she’s forced out.

Rita is a smart cookie, but she’s also a very tired cookie these days. She has enough on her plate, what with needing to find a new place to live, pronto. She can’t make the rent on the town house if Rick is moving out. He’s going to pay child support—Mr. Good Guy, bully for you, you’re so swell—but, man, that’s not the same as splitting all the living expenses. Based on what she’s seen so far, she’s going to be forced to take a two-bedroom, make Mickey double up with her, at least until Joey gets a little older. There’s also no way she’s going to be able to stay in the city school district.

Mickey seems okay about changing schools, almost eager for it. Rita had steeled herself for a big showdown, only it never happened. Mickey’s an okay kid most of the time, doesn’t ask for much. But when she does want something, she is ferocious in her desire for it. She argues, she screams, and, on occasion, even lashes out, trying to hit and scratch Rita. She’s a hellcat. Well, she comes by that naturally, through her mother and her father, may he rest in peace. Rest in pieces. What a loser he was. Killed in jail, in the overnight lockup on something small, but he had to go pick a fight with a little guy who beat him to death before the guards could get to them. When Mickey was young, it was too complicated to say her father was dead and not say how, so Rita said he was in the wind. She planned to kill him later, in some more civilized way. “Oh, honey, I just heard—your dad died in a car accident in Whereverthehellishe.” Or cancer. Something nice. But as Mickey gets older, it only grows harder for Rita to speak to her of her father’s death. She’s such a funny kid, always focused on who has what, very into fairness. It bugs her that Joey has a father and she doesn’t.

Man, how bugged she would be if she ever finds out that Joey has two fathers, in a sense. But even Rick hasn’t figured that out. At least she doesn’t think he knows that part.

Rita’s tables are all in lulls; she ducks outside for a cigarette. The air is nice tonight, balmy and bursting with scents, spring coming on all of a sudden, like it overslept and needs to make up time. But maybe what she’s smelling is only what’s left in the breeze from McCormick spices on the other side of the harbor. People are excited about the changes coming to the harbor, and Rita knows there will be opportunities—new restaurants, which will draw crowds if only because they’re new. But she’s skeptical. Tear down the old things, build new things, it’s still Baltimore. She should have gotten out while the getting was good, headed to San Francisco or Los Angeles, maybe Dallas. Some big city, although not New York. New York never appealed to her. It’s almost as bad as Baltimore. Crime, drugs. Dirty. She wants to go someplace clean, fresh, and warm, a place where the air never turns red with powder from the steel mill. Atlanta? Florida, although not Jacksonville, where she grew up.
Real
Florida, Miami or Fort Lauderdale.

But her last chance of a fresh start was sixteen years and two kids ago. She met Mickey’s father, Paul, and got knocked up. Talk about wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. She couldn’t afford an abortion, and even if she could, she didn’t trust the guy that Paul said he knew. Then Paul had to go and get himself killed before his daughter was even born. At least she could claim they were married, pretend to respectability, not that her own father bought it. He only let her stay at home because her mother was wild for the baby. They moved out as soon as Mickey was in school and Rita got the lunch shift at Hot Shoppe Juniors. She moved on to Connolly’s when Mickey turned nine. Then she met Rick. Then she met Joey’s dad-to-be, not even a month later. That was a complicated time. But
fun
. She smiles, remembering, two new romances at the same time, both fulfilling in their own way. There was Rick, handsome and steady, ready to take care of her, so sweet with Mickey. Rita loved her daughter a little more, seeing her with Rick. Not that she didn’t love her like crazy, but part of being a single mom was never getting to step back and take in the view. Rick made that possible.

Then there was Joey’s dad, Larry. He was bad, in the best sense of the word. Drove a hot car, usually had a little toot on him, liked to have sex anywhere but a bed. He had come into the restaurant one night, sat at the bar, watching her, making sure she saw him watching her. He was waiting outside when she got off at ten, leaning against his Monte Carlo. “Need a lift home?” “I need to make a phone call first.” He gave her the dime for the pay phone. She liked that. She went back inside, called Mickey. “Mommy’s got to stay late,” she said. “We’re doing inventory.” The girl was nine, there was no harm in leaving her alone. Within an hour, Larry had her bent over a picnic table in a kids’ park and she was all but baying at the moon. Maybe it was the cocaine, maybe it was cheating on Rick, maybe Larry really did know some things that other men didn’t. All she knew was that the sex was better than it was with Rick, and it shouldn’t be. Larry wasn’t even as good-looking as Rick. Bad skin, too thin. She assumed part of the reason he liked sex in odd places was because he never had to get all the way naked, he could conceal his caved-in, almost hairless chest, his pin-thin arms and legs. Didn’t matter. He was thick where it counted.

Then Rita got pregnant. She couldn’t be sure who the dad was, so she figured she’d tell them both, see what each one offered, kind of like making two employers compete for her. Rick said they should get engaged, move in together. Larry said he would help her out however he could—and promptly disappeared. So that sealed it. She had the right guy, and who cared who the actual sperm donor was. Rick was solid, reliable. She could have given up working, but she was reluctant for reasons even she didn’t understand. She told Rick she would keep working so they could put more aside to buy a house, yet she never put anything aside, except for the tip money she hid in a little metal box in the kitchen. Rick worked days and she stayed home with the kids, keeping her evening shifts. By afternoon, she looked forward to getting out of the house, although she knew enough to complain now and then about her job. Sometimes, heading out the door, she all but did a little jig.

Then last December, Larry came into Connolly’s. Sat at the bar, eyed her the whole time. Sure enough, he was waiting for her, leaning against a new car. Still thin, still pockmarked. Still sexy.

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Been too long.”

She had worked out what she would say if she ever saw him again. It was good, too. She was going to flash her engagement ring, say that some men knew how to treat a woman. Those plans evaporated. She still wanted him. It was even more exciting than the last time around. Now she was
really
cheating. But she was cheating with the father of her child. And there was no doubt in her mind that he was the father. Joey was almost five now, and people kept commenting on how he didn’t resemble anyone in the family, except maybe Mickey a little. Only Rita knows that he looks just like his father.

She was up in the air, incapable of making a decision, wanting Larry, scared to leave Rick. It turned out not to be her decision after all. Rick caught wind of what she was doing. How, she’s still not sure, but it didn’t matter. They were over.

She tosses her cigarette in the water, goes back inside. She has gauged her tables well: the young lovers tip fairly, the man tips generously, the doctors-to-be can’t even make 10 percent among the three of them. She tries not to watch the clock, but she’s aware of it over her head, its hand creeping toward nine, sending her home.

He walks in at eight forty-five, making the bartender sigh. Rita sighs, too, only happily. She hasn’t told Larry yet that Rick moved out and she has to start over. Rick is her ace in the hole. She’ll be smart this time, play it right. The magazines she reads at the beauty parlor, the women she knows—you can’t call them friends, but they gab sometimes—all these so-called authorities would argue that it’s not smart to want this man, that he’s already proven he can’t be trusted. But a person can change in a few years. He came back for her. When he sees Joey, everything will fall into place.

They make love parked outside her town house. This has been their pattern since Rick moved out two weeks ago, Larry digging what he thinks is the big risk, getting caught. Larry follows her home, she runs inside, tells Mickey she’s going out for a pack of cigarettes or a carton of milk, please keep the door locked and listen for Joey. Then she gets in Larry’s car, which has these divine seats that go all the way flat. Tonight, the two of them are extra quick, but not in that efficient I-know-you-let’s-get-it-done way. They’re quick because they can’t hold back. After, she smokes a cigarette, helps herself to the bottle under his front seat, laughing about nothing. God, did she and Rick ever laugh about anything? If so, she can’t remember. He was always so superdutiful, and then he started getting superparanoid about her and the kids, accounting for everyone’s whereabouts. Glancing back at the house, she thinks she sees the curtain twitch in the window. But Mickey knows better. Rita will snatch that girl bald-headed if she’s spying on her. She pulls Larry’s head to her breasts, thinks about the dinner she’ll cook in her new apartment the first time she has him over. Something good, but not too fancy. Candles on the table? No candles, she decides. Very casual, maybe even take-out pizza. She has the man she wants, not the one she’s supposed to want. It was trying to be good that made her bad, leading with her brain instead of her heart. If she lets herself have what she really wants, it will be easier to be good this time.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he last student on Clem’s schedule this morning is very young, very pretty—and destined for failure. These things are not related, not directly. But her youth and her beauty have protected her for much of her life, and this girl—Clem sneaks a look at his appointment calendar, Amanda something, he can’t read his own handwriting, he’s the ultimate doctor cliché—cannot quite believe that these attributes will not get her through medical school as well. She got in, didn’t she? Besides, based on what Clem has gleaned, she was a legitimate admission, not an affirmative action reach or a legacy. She had good grades and MCATs. She is earnest and hardworking.

But she’s not meant to be a doctor, not unless she chooses a field like pathology, where her ineptness with people won’t matter. Oh, doctors can be cold, brusque, high-handed. Many are. But they at least need to understand people on some level, which this girl does not. Inevitably, she wants to be a pediatrician. She thinks children
like
her. No one likes her. Clem tries to imagine a child wretched enough to deserve her “care,” and his mind slides across an image of little Go-Go Halloran, which shocks him. He doesn’t harbor any ill feelings toward the boy. He pities him.

“Dr. Robison?”

“Yes, Amanda?”

“What do you think I should do?”

Quit
. But his instincts about people, which are excellent, tell him not to be direct with this young woman. There is something a little dangerous about Amanda. He’s not going to flatter himself into thinking she would sleep with him to improve her situation, yet she clearly wants
something
from him. She almost vibrates with neediness. She is used to people volunteering to help her, figuring out what she requires even when she doesn’t have a clue herself.

“We would have more options if you had come to me before you received a failing grade,” he says.

“But I wasn’t failing until I took the final.”

“You were marginal throughout the year. You had to know you were skating by, that you were rolling the dice.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. Her mannerisms are so childish. Perhaps she has confused her own immaturity with an affinity for the young.

“You could take a semester off,” he says. “Come back at midyear, retake the class. Plead special circumstances.”

“Such as?”

You’re not very intelligent
. “That’s not for me to say. Amanda”—she brightens at the very sound of her name, like a dog or a small child—“tell me—why do you want to be a doctor?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.” She is slipping into a speech, a performance. She has recited this story before, probably to much nodding approval. “When I was four, I opened a hospital for my toys. And I really fixed them—put dolls’ arms back in their sockets, sewed on a teddy bear’s eye.”

Ah, but the toys couldn’t complain.

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. I can’t imagine anything more rewarding than taking care of children. Especially babies, who can’t tell you where they hurt or what’s wrong.”

“I’m not sure being a doctor is supposed to be rewarding,” he says.

Amanda’s eyes bug at this bit of sacrilege. She is not, upon second look, as attractive as she clearly thinks she is. Her features are not proportionate. The big eyes are a little goo-goo-googly, the mouth broad, and the heart-shaped face can’t quite contain it all. She looks like a cartoon deer.

Goo-goo-googly makes Clem think of Go-Go again. Again, there is a flash of—it can only be called revulsion. But he’s a little boy. Nothing was his fault. The adults have to take responsibility for what happened.

“I mean—it is, at times, very rewarding. But that’s not the point, the main thing of it. We don’t become doctors because of how it makes
us
feel. We become doctors because we want to care for others. What we feel and experience is secondary. We are here to serve patients.”

“Your specialty is geriatrics.”

“Yes?”

She is groping toward a point, although lord knows what it is. That he doesn’t understand her desire to care for children? That his patients are closer to natural death and therefore less important, or simply crankier and more demanding? Why does he even bother? She probably will muddle through, end up in a pediatric practice. Chances are, she will be no worse than clumsy, the kind of doctor that children hate and everyone thinks it’s just their child. There will be mistakes, but they won’t be fatal. Serious, perhaps. Vulnerable to lawsuits. But she won’t manage to kill anyone, and her colleagues will cover for her because that’s what doctors do. Clem believes every profession covers for its incompetents. So do families. Any group, no matter how loosely affiliated, will always close ranks against the world at large.

He gives Amanda a generic pep talk, sends her on her way. He needs to review three other student files before he meets with them this afternoon, but he feels logy. If he sits here, he’ll fall asleep. He will go for a walk, maybe buy a hot dog from one of the carts.

The University of Maryland sits in a forlorn, somewhat forgotten corner of southwest downtown, although the neighborhood is beginning to catch a second wind. When the highway project was halted by community opposition—and Clem was one of those who fought it, because of what it would have done to Leakin Park, its flora and fauna—the city was left with blocks of houses it had planned to demolish. These “dollar” houses in nearby Otterbein ultimately were awarded in a lottery to those who promised to renovate them and live in them for at least five years. Some of those houses will come on the market soon, although the neighborhood is far from gentrified, despite talk about Federal Hill becoming the next Georgetown. Baltimore is one of those cities that defines itself by such comparisons. The next this, the next that. Except maybe Johns Hopkins, which considers itself far above the city, apart from it. But Clem has no regrets about choosing the University of Maryland. It’s a good school, too, and it doesn’t have to shoulder the weight of a worldwide reputation. Renown is overrated. Plus, one becomes responsible for all of one’s colleagues at such places. In the public’s mind, Hopkins is Hopkins is Hopkins. He can’t imagine that everyone at Hopkins is pleased with John Money right now, given his recent pro-incest comments in
Time
magazine. If Clem worked at Hopkins, he’d probably be asked about that constantly, would not be able to persuade people that a geriatric specialist has no overlap with the sex clinic.

It’s a finer day than the morning had promised, and Clem decides to walk north, up Eutaw, to the pleasant chaos of Lexington Market. He won’t go so far as to say that he prefers Baltimore to his hometown of Boston, but he considers it a fair trade, especially since they moved into the house on Wetheredsville Road. Boston was fine. He understood it, and it understood him. But Tally wanted to leave, so they left—and allowed her to make him the scapegoat, telling her family it was Clem who desired a change. He shields Tally often from such unpleasant situations, but it’s a small price to pay for being married to her. He’s a lucky man. Other men, seeing Tally next to him, have told him that over and over. Twenty-five years after the fact, he still flushes at the memory of those early days with Tally. At least she wasn’t his student, although that’s what everyone seems to infer.

Still, it was illicit by his standards, even a little sordid. That was part of its charm. And she had taken the lead. No one would ever believe that, and he would never say as much out loud. It’s not gallant, for one thing. Perhaps the truth is seldom gallant. Eighteen-year-old Tally Duchamp seduced thirty-two-year-old Clement Robison. He had no idea why she wanted to be with him, and he is even more baffled by why she stays with him. She is a headstrong woman, capable of marrying someone merely to antagonize her parents, then staying in that marriage to prove them wrong. Tally has enormous staying power for grudges.

But she is fickle in almost all other aspects of her life. Clem has watched her flail and fail her way through a remarkable number of projects, attacking each enterprise with great energy, then dropping the new activity when the early passion dissipates. He should find it reassuring that painting seems to have taken hold, that she finally is finding a place to channel her formidable energy, especially now that Gwen is only a few years away from leaving the nest. But Tally’s current obsession unnerves him. She seems to be using it to wall herself off, to escape from the family. Did he feel that way before the night of the hurricane? Or is he projecting on her the burden of his secret? If she knew what he knows, she would be within her rights to distance herself.

He wonders if Tim and Rick have broken their pledge. There is a prevailing theory that there are no secrets in marriages, not good ones. If they have confided in their mates—well, he envies them. He would love the release of telling someone, to hear someone say:
What could you have done?
Or:
I don’t see that you had any choice.
The problem is, he doesn’t trust Tally to say those things. Her best quality is also her worst. She’s relentlessly, reluctantly honest when asked her opinion. Oh, she won’t volunteer it, won’t go out of her way to make someone feel bad. She tries to be tactful. But if you insist on knowing what she really thinks, you’d better be prepared to take it. Sometimes Clem isn’t.

He enters the market. Noisy and chaotic on this Thursday before Memorial Day, it comes at him in a wave of aromas. Fried food, deli meats, fish, flowers. The sweet, buttery smells of Konstant Candies’ peanut brittle trumps everything else. He will buy some for Gwen only—she doesn’t eat candy anymore. His mood flags, thinking of his daughter, the obsession with her weight. Worse, her intense interest in boys. She used to have a lively, curious mind and now all she cares about are clothes and how many boys call her each week. It wasn’t that long ago that she walked with him through the woods on weekend days, raptly absorbing his knowledge of plants and wildlife. Only two years ago, they read
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
together, which provided a lot of opportunities for valuable discussion. Poverty, the lives of immigrants, even sex crimes. When he speaks to her now, she is very patient and kind, as if he were mildly retarded.

He decides to have a crab cake at Faidley’s. And a beer. It’s practically the holiday weekend.

Someone has left a copy of yesterday’s
Star,
the afternoon paper, on the counter. Clem flips through it reflexively, pushing it away when he chances on an item from Chicago, something about a possible appeal in John Wayne Gacy’s case. Every year, there seems to be a new unthinkable horror. Jim Jones in 1978, John Wayne Gacy last year. What will 1980 bring before it’s over? And will his first name begin with a
J
?

His food arrives and he focuses on enjoying the platter, a cholesterol horror show—French fries and macaroni and cheese, the fried crab cake. He would chide a patient for eating such a lunch. But his own cholesterol is excellent, as is his blood pressure. He knows his good health is a lottery ticket, but he’s proud to show patients what is possible as one ages. Yet no matter what he does, statistics show his wife is destined to be a widow at a relatively young age. That’s a bum thing to do to the person you love most in the world.

Tally was adamant that she understood the actuarial odds. That she would rather have a foreshortened time with him than a longer marriage to anyone else. Still, he wonders if she will decide that it was a poor bargain, giving away her youth, only to find herself alone with much of her own life ahead of her. Say she’s sixty-three when he dies, which would make him seventy-seven. That’s too late for a true second chance. She’ll almost definitely be a grandmother. She might be on her way to being a great-grandmother, if either Miller or Fee decides to start a family early. His money’s on Miller, a bit of a throwback, short-haired and stalwart and dutiful. Miller, born in 1956, almost seemed disappointed that he had to sign up for the draft but not actually serve. Miller lives to serve. He always wants to do the right thing. In other words, he’s just like his father. He has made a good marriage to a terrific girl. And that girl, like her mother-in-law before her, has persuaded Miller to abandon his hometown, only in her case she wants to be close to her family. He calls every Sunday, recounting his week. In some ways, Clem feels he knows more about Miller’s life than he does about Gwen’s.

Now Fee is quiet, withdrawn. She has a secret, even if she doesn’t know it. Tally believes it’s her sexuality, which makes Clem sad, only because he believes Fee’s life will be harder for it, that she will not be comfortable in her own skin. She’s in San Francisco, but she might as well be in . . . Dubuque, based on what Clem has gleaned of her life. She goes to school—she’s working toward a master’s in psychology—and spends her weekends biking obsessively, almost as if she’s trying to get away from herself. Clem hopes she eventually finds a way to be still.

As for Gwen—sweet, pretty, eager-to-please Gwen. Whatever she does, she’ll do well. So much younger than her siblings, Gwen had the best of both worlds: she was essentially raised as an only child, but by parents with plenty of field experience. Some might call her spoiled, but Clem thinks she’s the opposite. Gwen is a delight. Or was.

“What if it were your child? What if it was Gwen or Mickey?” Tim Halloran asked Clem and Rick that night. To this day, Clem has to fight down the impulse to blurt out:
It wouldn’t be. Gwen isn’t stupid that way
. He isn’t blaming the victim, Go-Go. He’s castigating the Hallorans for not preparing their son for the world at large. Was it because he was a boy that his safety in the world was presumed, or because he had two older brothers who were supposed to show him the ropes? Yet Clem and Tally hadn’t abdicated their responsibility to Gwen because of Miller and Fee.

“Hey, he tried to
hit
Mickey,” Rick said. “He could have killed her. The kids say he kept an old shotgun in that cabin. What if he had grabbed that instead of his guitar?”