Galilee (29 page)

“The thing is Mitch
doesn't
look at waitresses.”

“Well . . . lucky you. So what's the problem?”

Rachel set down her fork and stared at her half-eaten cobbler. “I've got so much to be grateful for,” she said, as though she were saying her prayers. “I know that. Lord, when I think of how much Mitch has given me . . .”

“Are you talking about
things?”

“Yes, of course.”

Sherrie waved them away. “Irrelevant. He could have given you half of New York and still be a bad husband.”

“I don't think he's a bad husband. I just think he's never going to belong to me the way Daddy belonged to you.”

“Because of his family?”

Rachel nodded. “God knows, I don't want to feel like I'm in a competition with them for his attention, but that's how it feels.” She sighed. “It's not even as though I could point to something they do that proves it. I just feel excluded.”

“From what, honey?”

“You know, I don't really know,” Rachel said. “It's just a feeling . . .” She exhaled; puffing out her cheeks. “Maybe the problem's all in here.” She tapped her fingers to her breast. “In me. I don't have any right not to be happy.” She looked up at her mother, her eyes brimming. “Do I? I mean, really and truly, what right in all the world do I have to be unhappy? When I think of Mrs. Bedrosian losing her family . . .”

Judith Bedrosian had lost her husband and three kids in an automobile accident when Rachel was fourteen. Everything the woman lived for—all the meaning in her life—taken away from her in one terrible moment. Yet she'd gone on, hadn't she?

“Everybody's different,” Sherrie said. “I don't know how poor Judith made peace with what happened to her, and you know what? Maybe she never has. The way people are on the outside and the way they feel deep down are never the same. Never. I
do
know she still has very bad times, after all these years. Days on end when I don't see her; and when I do she's obviously been crying for hours. And at Christmas I know she goes to her sister's in Wisconsin, even though she doesn't like the woman, because she can't bear to be alone. The memories are too much. So . . .” She sighed, as though the weight of Judith's grief was heavy on her too. “Who knows? All you can do is just get on with things the best way you know how. Personally, I'm a great proponent of Valium, in reasonable moderation. But each to their own.”

Rachel chuckled. She'd always known her mother to be an entertaining woman, after her odd fashion. But as the years went by Sherrie's sophistication became more apparent. Under the veneer of small town pieties lay a self-made mind, capable of a willfulness and a waywardness Rachel hoped she had inherited.

“So now what?” Sherrie said. “Are you going to ask him for a divorce?”

“No, of course not,” Rachel replied.

“Why's that such a surprising idea? If you don't love him—”

“I didn't say that.”

“—if you can't live with him then—”

“I didn't say that either. Oh God, I don't know. Margie said I
should
get a divorce. And a nice big settlement. But I don't want to be on my own.”

“You wouldn't be.”

“Mom, it sounds like you think I
should
leave him.”

“No, I'm just saying you wouldn't be on your own. Not for very long. So that's not a reason to stay in a marriage that's not giving you what you want.”

“You amaze me,” Rachel said. “You really do. I was absolutely certain you were going to sit me down and tell me I had to go back and give it another chance.”

“Life's too short,” Sherrie said. “That's not what I would have said a few years ago, but your viewpoint changes as time goes on.” She reached up and touched Rachel's cheek. “I don't want my beautiful Rachel to be unhappy for one more moment.”

“Oh, Mom . . .”

“So if you want to leave the man, leave him. There are plenty more handsome millionaires where he came from.”

T
hat night Deanne had invited them both to a church barbecue, assuring Rachel the guests were all people she knew and liked, and she'd already passed the word around that nobody was to ply Rachel with questions about life in the fast lane. Even so, Rachel wasn't keen to go. Deanne, however, made it plain that she'd take it as a personal affront if she declined. Once they got to the barbecue, however, Rachel lost her protection. The kids went off to play, and her sister—despite promising to stay close by—was off after five minutes to have a heart-to-heart with the hostess. Rachel was left in the midst of people she didn't know but who were all too familiar with her.

“I saw you and your husband on television just a few weeks ago,” one of the women, who introduced herself as Kimberly, Deanne's second-best friend, whatever that meant, remarked. “It was one of those gala nights. You all looked to be having such a wonderful time. I said to Frankie—that's my husband, Frankie, over there, with the hotdog; he used to work with your sister's husband—I said to Frankie don't they look as though they're having a wonderful time? You know, everything so polished.”

“Polished?”

“Everything,” Kimberly repeated, “so polished. You know, everything sparkling.” Her eyes gleamed as she recalled the sight; Rachel didn't have the heart to tell her what a drab affair the gala had been; the food sickly, the speeches interminable, the company wretched. She just let the woman blather on for a few minutes, nodding or smiling when it seemed appropriate to do so. She was saved from this depressing exchange by a man with a napkin tucked in his shirt, a sizable sparerib in his hand and his face liberally basted in barbecue sauce.

“You don't mind me barging in,” he said to Rachel's captor, “but it's a long time since I saw this little lady.”

“You're a mess, Neil Wilkens,” the woman declared.

“I am?”

“All round your mouth.”

The man plucked his napkin from his shirt and wiped his mouth, giving Rachel time to realize who this was: Neil Wilkens, the first boy who'd had her heart (and broken it) all grown up. He had a gingery beard, a receding hairline, and the beginnings of a beer belly. But his smile, when it emerged from behind the napkin, was as bright as ever.

“You do know who I am?” he said.

“Neil.”

“The same.”

“It's wonderful to see you. I think Deanne told me you'd gone to Chicago.”

“He came back with his tail between his legs,” Kimberly remarked, somewhat uncharitably.

Neil's brightness was undimmed. “I didn't like living in a big city,” he said, “I guess I'm a small-town boy at heart. So I came back home and started up a business with Frankie—”

“That's my husband,” Kimberly put in, in case Rachel had missed this fact.

“We do general house repairs. A little bit of plumbing, a little bit of roof work.”

“They argue all the time,” Kimberly said.

“We do not,” Neil said.

“Fighting like dogs one minute. Best friends the next.”

“Frankie's a Communist,” Neil said.

“He is
not,”
Kimberly protested.

“Jack was a card-carrying Commie, Kimberly,” Neil replied.

“Who's Jack?” Rachel asked him.

“Frankie's Dad. He died a while back.”

“Prostate cancer,” Kimberly put in.

“And when Frankie was going through the old man's papers he found a Communist Party card. So now he carries it around with him, and he's talking about how we should all rise up against the forces of capitalism.”

“He doesn't mean it,” Kimberly said.

“How do you know?”

“It's just his stupid sense of humor,” she said. Neil caught Rachel's eye, and gave her a tiny smile. He was obviously stirring Kimberly up.

“Well you can say whatever you like,” he remarked, “but if a guy's carrying a Commie card, he's a Commie.”

“Oh you are
so
infuriating sometimes,” Kimberly said, and without another word, stalked away.

“It's too easy,” Neil chuckled. “She gets so hot under the collar if you say anything about her Frankie, but she gives the poor man hell day and night. He had a good head of hair when he married her. Not that I have much to boast about.” He ran his palm over his semi-naked pate.

“I think it rather suits you,” Rachel said.

Neil beamed. “Do you? Really? Lisa hated it.”

“Lisa's your wife?”

“The mother of my children,” Neil said, with ironic precision.

“You're not married.”

“We were. Actually technically we still are. But she's in Chicago, with the kids, and I'm . . . well, I'm here. They were going to come back and join me when I was all set up, but that's not going to happen. She's got someone else now, and the kids are happy. At least, she says they are.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said, the word one long sigh. “I suppose it's happening all the time, but it's hard when you want to make something work but you just can't.” He stared down at his paint-stained boots, as if embarrassed by this confession.

“Did I know Lisa?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah, you knew her,” he said, still studying his boots. “Her name was Froman. Lisa Angela Froman. She's the same age as your sister. In fact, they were in Sunday school for a year or so.”

“I remember her,” Rachel said, picturing a pretty, bespectacled blonde girl of sixteen or so. “She was very quiet.”

“She still is. She's very smart and the kids got her brains, which is great for them, 'cause God knows I'm not the brightest guy on the block.”

“So you miss them?”

“Like crazy. All the time. All the time.” He said it as though it was still hard for him to believe. “I mean, you'd think after a while it'd become easier, but . . .” He shook his head. “ . . . you want a beer. or something?” He made a halfhearted little laugh. “I got a joint.”

“You still smoke?”

“Not like I used to. But, you know, when things are boring I like to tune out. Then I don't think about things too much. I mean, it could break your heart . . .”

They wandered down to the bottom of the yard. There, at Neil's instigation they clambered over the low wall onto a strip of land which had been used as a dumping ground for vehicles, including an old school bus. It was all delightfully furtive, which made the mild high Rachel got when she took a hit of Neil's joint all the more fun.

“Ah,
that's better,” Neil said. “I should have done this before I came. I don't like these shindigs anymore. Not on my own.” He took his third drag on the reefer and passed it back to Rachel. “In fact, you know what?”

“What?”

“I don't like much anymore. I'm going to end up like my Dad. Did you meet my Dad?”

“Everrett.”

“You remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Rachel said, with a little laugh.

“Everrett Hancock Wilkens.”

“Hancock?”

“Hey, don't knock it. Hancock's my middle name too.”

She repeated the name, through mounting laughter. The syllables suddenly seemed funny as hell. “Does anybody ever call you Hancock?' she giggled.

“Only my Mom,” he said, dissolving into laughter himself. “I always knew I was in trouble when I was a kid 'cause I'd hear her yelling—”

They yelled together
—“Hancock”—
then in perfect synchronicity glanced guiltily back toward the yard, where several heads had turned in their direction.

“We're making fools of ourselves,” Rachel said, attempting to suppress her laughter.

“That's the story of my life,” Neil said. There was hurt behind the remark, despite his offhand manner. “But I'm past caring.”

By sheer force of will Rachel wiped the smirk off her face. “I'm sorry things turned out the way they did,” she said; then lost her composure completely, and began laughing so hard she was doubled up.

“What's so funny?” Neil wanted to know.

“Hancock,” she said again. “It's such a silly name.” She wiped the tears away from her eyes. “Oh Lord,” she said, “I'm sorry. You were saying . . .”

“Never mind,” Neil said. “It wasn't anything important.” He was still grinning; but there was something else in his look.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“Nothing's wrong,” he replied. “I was only thinking . . .”

She suddenly knew what he was going to say, and willed him not to spoil the moment by doing so. But she failed.

“ . . . what an idiot I was . . .”

“Neil.”

“ . . . giving you up . . .”

“Neil, let's not . . . no, please let me. I might never get another chance to tell you what's in my head . . .”

“Are you sure we shouldn't just have another smoke?”

“I've thought about you such a lot over the years.”

“That's nice of you to say.”

“It's true,” he said. “I've had so many regrets in my life. So many things I wished I'd done differently; wished I'd done
right.
And you're at the top of the list, Rachel. The number of times I've seen you in a magazine, or on the television, and thought: she could have been with me. I could have made her so happy.” He looked directly into her eyes. “You know that, don't you?” he said. “I could have made you so happy.”

“We took different paths, Neil,” she said.

“Not just different. Wrong.”

“I don't think—”

“Not you. I'm not talking about you. God knows, you made a smart move marrying Geary. No. I'm talking about my screwups.” He shook his head, and she realized that there were sudden tears in his eyes.