Mrs. Kimble (25 page)

C
harlie hadn’t seen Ken Kimble in twenty years, not since the night he and Jody had crept out of the house in Florida and ridden the Greyhound bus back to Virginia. The details of that trip—the stops in Atlanta and Charleston and Wilmington, North Carolina; the long walk from the bus depot to their mother’s house—remained vivid in his memory, like a dream that lingers through the morning, shadowing everything.

He’d always known he’d see his father again. It was part of the structure of his life, the knowledge that Ken Kimble was somewhere in the world. Once, in college, he’d spent a spring break in Florida with some buddies. All that week he’d looked over his shoulder, waiting for the man to appear. Then, a few years ago, his sister Jody had seen Kimble’s photo in the metro section of the
Post
. Apparently the man was living in Washington, a big-shot real estate developer. Charlie was a photographer for the
Baltimore Sun,
sent on assignments all over Maryland and northern Virginia. It seemed inevitable that their paths would cross. It was just a matter of time.

A thousand times he’d imagined their meeting. Always in a public place, always with an audience: he wanted the world to know what Kimble had done. He knew exactly what he’d say when the man introduced himself.
What a coincidence. My father was named Ken Kimble too. He abandoned my mother with two kids and never paid a dime of child support.
He imagined the man speechless, mute with shame.

He’d been working in his darkroom when the phone rang.

“This is Dinah Kimble,” said a woman’s voice. “Your father’s wife.”

Buzzing in his ears, an industrial sound. He saw that everything in his life had led to this moment.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Your sister gave me this number.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry to bother you. I thought you’d want to know.” There was a long pause. “He’s had a heart attack.”

He could have cut her off then.
I don’t care,
he could have said.
I don’t want to see him.
Something stopped him. Only later did he realize what it was.

Ken Kimble was getting old. If he didn’t see the man now, he might not get another chance.

T
HEY DROVE
to Great Falls on Thanksgiving morning, Charlie and his girlfriend Anne-Sophie. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Charlie!” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?” He hadn’t smoked in a year. He’d bought a pack just for the occasion.

She rolled down her window. “You were doing so well.”

They rode in silence. Once, twice, he glanced across the seat at her. That summer they’d gone to visit her parents in France. She’d been a different person there, gesturing, laughing, her mouth moving in a strange way. It explained certain things about her face, the way her lips always appeared to be pursed, even when she was asleep. He’d fallen in love with the shape of her mouth. Now he knew that half the women in France had it too.

“You never kept in contact with him?” she asked.

“I haven’t seen him since I was eleven years old.”

She frowned. “How did he find you?”

“His wife tracked down Jody. I didn’t get the details.”

“He has married again?”

Charlie laughed. “He’s always married. This is the third wife that I know of. There may have been others I didn’t hear about.”

The exits flew past.

“It’s a special situation,” said Anne-Sophie. She’d never quite grasped the English usage of the word.

“Very special,” said Charlie.

“Does your mother know you are seeing him?”

“Good Christ, no. You can’t mention his name in her presence.” He inhaled deeply. There was a pleasant tingling around his mouth, a familiar jolt to the nerves along his spine.

“But they are divorced a long time,” said Anne-Sophie.

“You don’t know my mother.” He signaled to change lanes. “She fell to pieces when he left. She never recovered from it.”

“Is that why you hate him so much?”

“It’s on the list.” He tossed his cigarette out the window. “My mother had no business raising kids on her own. She’s like a child herself. He was married to her for eight years; he must have known that. He left us with her anyway.”

Anne-Sophie watched him. “Is this the reason you don’t want to get married?”

“Do we have to discuss that now?”

She stared out the window.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not a good time.”

“It’s never a good time,” she said.

G
REAT
F
ALLS
was a money town. Charlie had gone there once to photograph a disgraced fed, a corrupt cabinet secretary indicted for taking bribes. He remembered the massive new houses crowded together, the wide dead-end streets, the green lawns reeking of herbicide.

This is a terrible mistake, he thought. Years before, he’d been flying home from an assignment in California when the plane made an emergency landing in a field of onions. Time slowed; he spoke softly to the hysterical grandmother sitting next to him and helped her assume the crash position. Before, he’d wondered how he’d behave in the face of death, whether he’d panic or pray. That day he discovered that his deepest instinct was to be pleasant.

He found the address easily, an imposing Tudor at the end of a cul-de-sac. He parked in the curving driveway and stared at the house.

“Is everything okay?” said Anne-Sophie.

“Fine,” he said. The man was loaded, that much was clear. He thought of his mother, working for minimum wage at Shively’s Cleaners in town. They’d kept her on for years despite her constant lateness, her frequent absences. On her slim paychecks she’d fed and clothed him and Jody, with no help from Kimble. She was too proud to sue for child support or alimony; she’d never asked their father for a dime. Charlie thought of the speech he’d prepared,
how he’d shame the man, make him admit every despicable thing he’d done.
You kidnapped us. You lied to my mother. You said you were coming back.

“Ten minutes,” he told Anne-Sophie. “Ten minutes, and we’re out of here.”

They walked up the curved driveway, lined with bare trees. Anne-Sophie wore a thin sweater, leather pants that cupped her behind. Charlie chafed under his collar. She had talked him into a tie.

He lifted the brass knocker and held it for a second. He could still leave, turn around and drive away. They could call the house from a pay phone somewhere.
This is Charlie. I’m sorry. I couldn’t make it.

“What’s the matter?” said Anne-Sophie.

“Nothing,” he said.

He knocked firmly at the door. Music inside, soft footsteps; then a woman opened the door.

“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Dinah.” She looked about Charlie’s age—tall and blond, the sort of woman he’d turn around to look at in the street. He felt suddenly sick.

“Charlie Kimble,” he said, extending his hand.

“Welcome.” A ray of sunlight cut sideways across her face, lighting the pale down of her cheek. A strange flush covered half her face. Her hand was warm and surprisingly strong.

“Come in.” She was barefoot, her jeans streaked dark at the thighs, as if she’d wiped her hands on them. “The thermometer just popped. Charlie, can you carve a turkey?”

“Sure,” he said.

They passed through a large dining room: high ceilings, golden wood floors. A long table was set with china and silver. His house, Charlie thought. I’m in his house.

“Ken and Jody are in the living room,” said Dinah. “Brendan is upstairs.”

Blood pounded in his ears; Jody had told him there was a son. He thought again of the plummeting airplane, hurling toward the earth.

They went into the living room. Ken Kimble sat in a leather armchair near the fire. He got briskly to his feet.

“Charlie.” He offered his hand.

Charlie’s heart raced. They stood eye to eye; their hands were the same size.

“Good of you to come.” Kimble stood very straight, his chinos sharply creased. For an instant Charlie remembered him lean and suntanned, running along the beach.

Charlie nodded. He felt paralyzed, incapable of speech. Sweat trailed down his back.

Jody rose from the sofa. She wore a skirt and high heels, a phenomenon he hadn’t witnessed in years. Even dressed up, she looked like what she was: an athletic, horse-loving tomboy with muscular legs and a round, open face.

“Charlie,” she said, embracing him. “It’s about time.”

“Hey, Jo.” He clasped her quickly, grateful to turn his back on the man. Then he turned to the wife.

“Didn’t you need some help with the turkey?”

D
INAH LED
Charlie into the kitchen, an ache in her throat. How alike they looked: the same long face, the same nose and forehead and jaw. Jody favored her mother, red-haired and buxom. Charlie was the picture of Ken.

He stood at the window, examining the shiny leaves of a
bromeliad that bloomed in a corner. He seemed more interested in her plants than he’d been in his father.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “We both are.”

“Thanks.” He looked ready to run, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Let’s have a look at that turkey,” she said.

Together they lifted the bird out of the roaster. The skin was golden brown; dark juices pooled in the pan.

“It’s huge,” said Charlie.

“You sound like your father.” He said nothing. A spot of red appeared in each cheek.

Dinah tilted the roaster and poured the drippings into a saucepan. “He’s doing much better. He was pretty weak at first. Exhausted. But he seems to have his energy back.”

Charlie stared at the floor. A flush crept up from his collar.

“That’s good,” he said finally.

“I’m sorry,” said Dinah. “This is all so bizarre. It must be very confusing for you.”

“I’m not sure why I’m here.” At last his eyes met hers. “I haven’t seen your husband in twenty years. He’s a complete stranger to me.”

Your husband
. The coldness of the words shocked her.

“That’s a long time,” she said.

Charlie took the knife from her hands and inspected the turkey; he made a neat incision into the breast. A lock of hair spilled over his brow—thick and curly, a dark auburn. That, at least, was his mother’s.

“Your hair got darker,” she said without thinking.

He stared at her quizzically. His cheeks were now violently red, as though he’d been slapped. “How would you know?”

She took a deep breath. “I knew you when you were little. You and Jody. You probably don’t remember.”

He frowned.

“I was Dinah Whitacre then.”

“Dinah,” he repeated. Then his brow cleared. “The baby-sitter?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved. “I was going to tell you on the phone, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

“The baby-sitter.” He began to laugh. “He married the baby-sitter.”

Her cheeks burned. “That was years later, of course.”

Charlie laughed harder, a deep sound that ended in a cough. He seemed to be choking. Finally he dabbed at his eyes.

“I don’t know why I’m laughing,” he said.

“It’s quite a coincidence,” she admitted, turning away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s okay.” She busied herself at the stove, heating the pan drippings for gravy. When anyone asked how she and Ken had met, she jokingly described it as a hit-and-run. The details of that afternoon outside Emile’s—the ice, her broken ankle, the drive to the hospital—came easily to her, the words familiar from years of repetition, like a hymn learned in childhood. Yet she never told the other part of the story; even their oldest friends weren’t aware that Dinah and Ken had known each other before.
He married the baby-sitter.
She’d never thought of her marriage in quite those terms. It sounded to her like the stock plot of a porno film, incredible and slightly obscene.

“How is your mother?” she asked, changing the subject. “Ken told me once that she’d moved to the country. That was years ago.”

“She’s still there. Not much has changed with her.” His eyes met hers. “She still drinks.”

Dinah thought of her last evening baby-sitting at the Kimbles’. Ken had already left by then, run off God knew where with one of his students. Mrs. Kimble came home late that night, wet and bedraggled, her shoes in her hand. At the time Dinah had suspected, but wasn’t sure, that the woman was drunk.

“She drinks?” she asked, stirring the gravy.

“Has for years. Since they got divorced.” He seemed to speak more easily now that her back was turned.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not the kind of thing he would have told you.” He handed her the platter of turkey.

“No,” she agreed. “It isn’t.”

They brought the food to the table: turkey, potatoes, cranberries, stuffing. Odors rose from the table, familiar as rain; Charlie thought of his grandma Helen’s table, laden with food. It astonished him, that Thanksgiving dinner could smell the same even here.

He heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Brendan,” Dinah called. “Come and meet Charlie.”

The kid appeared on the stairs, like a wild animal lured by food. He was nearly Charlie’s height but much heavier, with pudgy forearms and big soft hands. He had an odd haircut, long on top, shaved around the sides. A crop of pimples bloomed near his mouth.

“Hi,” said Charlie.

“Hey.” The kid was badly, expensively dressed: baggy jeans, a sweater with an emblem over the chest. His high-top sneakers were perfectly clean, as if they’d lived their lives indoors.

“Do you care where I sit?” he asked his mother. His voice was deep and slurry, his mouth full of braces.

“Wherever you want,” said Dinah.

The kid sat heavily in a chair. He kept his head down as the others trickled in: Jody, Kimble, Anne-Sophie. Only his eyes moved, following Anne-Sophie’s ass in the leather pants. Charlie wanted to laugh. He remembered that age, the world full of female parts, how one of his mother’s hairstyling magazines could keep him busy in the bathroom for a month. For you, pal, he thought. Happy Thanksgiving.