Mrs. Kimble (26 page)

They arranged themselves around the table: Kimble at the head, Anne-Sophie next to him. Charlie sat at the opposite end next to Dinah, avoiding her eyes.

“Would anyone like to say a blessing?” she asked.

“Not me,” said Kimble. “I got out of that racket years ago.”

That racket, Charlie thought. How inspiring.

“Charlie?” said Dinah.

“No, thanks,” he mumbled, coloring.

She shrugged. “Let’s dig in, then.”

The dishes circulated. Kimble decorated his plate with small dollops of vegetables and stuffing, a slice of corn bread. Then he mixed the foods together with a swirl of his fork. Charlie felt a flash of recognition, like a sudden headache: the tiny kitchen of their house in Richmond, his father mixing meat and potatoes in a single pile. He felt something break in him, a flat stone skipping across the surface, sinking to the bottom.

“I’m sorry your boyfriend couldn’t make it,” Dinah told Jody. “Russell, isn’t it?”

“He’s not feeling well,” said Jody. “The flu, I think.”

Flu, my ass, Charlie thought. Russell was a married doctor Jody had met at work; he was probably at home, celebrating the holiday with his wife and kids. Jody had been saying for years that the
marriage was on the verge of collapse. He wondered if she still believed it.

Dinah filled the wineglasses; at the other end of the table, Kimble chatted with Anne-Sophie. He was done with commercial development, he told her; made his money and got out while the getting was good. He was working on a new project, subsidized housing for low-income families. “In my dotage,” he said, as if he were so confident of his youthfulness that he could afford to make fun of his age.

“You’re retired?” said Anne-Sophie. “I can’t believe it.”

Kimble beamed. “Semi-retired. I’m sixty-five, sixty-six in January. Dinah is my child bride.”

Charlie stared at his plate.

“I read somewhere that the French have a formula,” said Kimble. “Have you heard this? For marital happiness. The woman should be half the man’s age, plus seven years.”

Jody giggled. “That’s silly.”

“It’s the ideal over there.” Kimble winked at Anne-Sophie. “Am I right?”

“I’ve heard something like that,” she said. “But it’s a joke. It isn’t serious.”

“Of course not.” Jody doused her potatoes with gravy. “It doesn’t make sense. If both people are the right age now, what happens in ten years? The numbers don’t work.”

Kimble smiled. “In ten years Dinah will be too old for me.”

Charlie glanced at Dinah.

“Have some more stuffing,” she said, handing him the plate.

“I don’t get it,” said Jody. “Then how is anything supposed to last? More than a couple of years, I mean.”

“It’s not serious,” Anne-Sophie repeated. “It’s just an expression. Something old men like to say.”

Ken Kimble laughed.

It seemed to Charlie that everything froze at that moment: the chewing and passing, the silverware noises.

“My dear,” Kimble said to Anne-Sophie. His cheeks looked pink and healthy; his eyes twinkled. “How on earth can you blame us?”

Charlie felt a flash of heat. He pushed his chair away from the table.

“Is that what happened with you and my mother?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” said Kimble.

“Charlie,
don’t,
” said Jody. She had the same transparent redhead’s skin as their mother. Her cheeks looked full of blood.

“Don’t what? I’d like to get in on this conversation.” He turned to face Kimble; he felt strangely calm. “How old was my mother when you married her?”

“I don’t recall,” said Kimble.

“She was eighteen,” said Charlie. “And you were how old?”

“Thirty-two,” he said stiffly.

Charlie gave a low whistle. “A little young for you, no? Even by the French standard? But then, you like them young.”

“Stop it!” Jody cried. A tear ran down her cheek.

“What do you want from me?” said Kimble.

Charlie’s heart was loud. “I’d like you to explain yourself.”

“What good would that do?”

Charlie laughed. “Absolutely none. But it might be entertaining.”

Kimble spread his hands. “Son, I have nothing to say.”

Charlie got to his feet.

“I’m going to get some air,” he said. “And I’m not your son.”

A
LL ALONG
the cul-de-sac the houses radiated light. Imported sedans lined the curving road. Charlie was startled to see his own car in the driveway. It seemed that days had passed since he’d driven down from Baltimore; weeks, months. The light was waning. In another hour it would be dark.

He sat on the front step. The wind had kicked up; he smelled pavement, exhaust, snow on the way. The fabric of his shirt breathed turkey and cooking herbs. A catering truck idled in the next driveway; young men in white shirts loaded it with boxes. That was more what he’d expected from a Great Falls Thanksgiving: hors d’oeuvres, catered food. Dinah had surprised him with her blue jeans, her plants hanging in the sunny windows, her copper pots steaming on the stove.

He inhaled deeply, picturing the way she’d once looked: the blond hair in braids, the purple stain covering her eye and cheek. She was a girl then, barely a teenager. He wondered, briefly, how it all happened, how she and the old man had gotten together. Then he realized he didn’t want to know.

He walked around to the rear of the house. The lawn was impeccably tended, lined with shrubs. A dormant garden sat out back. In the distance he saw flashes of light, cars speeding along Leesburg Pike. The yard would be secluded in summer, protected by lush woods. Everything was dead now, the trees starved and bare.

He glanced back at the house, the kitchen windows ablaze with light. A figure crouched beneath the underpinnings of the deck. It was the kid, trying to light a cigarette.

“Hey,” said Charlie.

The kid put the cigarette in his pocket. He looked stunned. He thinks I’m going to tell his mother, Charlie thought. He thinks I’m an adult.

He reached into his pocket and tossed the kid his lighter. “Try this.”

The kid stared at him for a second, then took the cigarette from his pocket. He tossed the lighter back to Charlie, who took out his own pack.

“Thanks,” said the kid.

They leaned against the house and smoked, hiding from the wind. Charlie was grateful for the cold, the bricks at his back, the quiet. The silence soaked in like an ointment.

“Hell of a dinner,” he said finally. “Your mom can cook.”

“Yeah,” said the kid. “She’s good.”

Charlie tugged at his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. “I’m sorry about all that in there. You shouldn’t have to hear that. For all I know he’s a great father to you.”

The wind whistled through the bare trees. The kid smoked his cigarette down to the filter. His big hands were as soft as a girl’s, the nails bitten to the quick.

“He isn’t,” he said finally.

“Isn’t what?”

“A great father.”

Charlie watched him.

“He’s never home.” The kid shrugged. “Fine by me; I like it that way. But my mom is alone too much.”

Charlie squashed his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “Mine too,” he said.

The kid flicked his cigarette butt into the yard. “Did she ever get married again?”

“Nah.” Charlie shrugged. “I think he cured her on marriage forever.”

The kid took another cigarette from his pocket. “Your girlfriend’s pretty,” he said. “Where’s she from?”

Charlie tossed him the lighter. “France. She’s French.”

The kid lit his cigarette. “I was going to take French. I took Spanish instead.”

“How do you like it?” said Charlie.

“I’m failing. It sucks.”

“I failed French. It sucked too.”

The kid laughed, a barking sound. He kicked at the ground with his sneakered toe. “Is it true you haven’t seen him since you were six years old? That’s what my mom said.”

“Almost.” He was surprised, somehow, that she’d told him. “We went to visit him once when he was living in Florida, me and my sister. I was ten. We stayed for a couple of days. Then we ran away.”

“No shit?” The kid seemed impressed. “My mom didn’t tell me that.”

“She probably doesn’t know. He was married to someone else then.” He thought of Joan in her flowered caftans, Joan who’d bought them flip-flops and taken them to Disney World.

“The one that died?” said Brendan.

Charlie stared at him. “She died?”

“Yeah. She had cancer. That’s what my mom says.”

Charlie nodded. He felt dizzy and slightly sick, nerves and nicotine.

“What was she like?” the kid asked.

“Joan?” He remembered the sixty dollars he’d stolen from her purse. He’d felt bad about it for years afterward.

“She was nice,” he said.

D
INAH CLEARED
the dishes from the table. Brendan had left a slice of turkey on his plate; he’d excused himself after Charlie’s outburst at the table.
How old was my mother when you married her? But then, you like them young
. The revelation had stunned her; she’d never imagined Ken’s first wife was so young—eighteen when he’d married her, a teenager. What sort of man falls in love with a teenager? she wondered. And then, not for the first time: What kind of man is he?

She cleared the stuffing and sweet potatoes, brushed away the succotash and corn bread crumbs surrounding Ken’s plate. Everyone had eaten well; they’d all had seconds except Charlie’s girlfriend. Dinah thought of the girl as she’d been at dinner, absorbed in Ken’s stories: deals he’d brokered, others he’d wisely passed up. He’d warmed under her attention, laughed as he hadn’t in weeks. At one time Dinah would have been jealous. Now she was only grateful. It pleased her to see Ken interested in something besides his work, his failing health. He hadn’t mentioned his blood pressure all day.

She went back to the dining room for the platter of turkey. The gravy boat had left an oily ring on the tablecloth. Charlie appeared in the doorway.

“Let me get that.” He took the platter and followed her to the kitchen. He smelled of outdoors and cigarettes; he radiated cold.

“Where is everybody?” he said. “You shouldn’t be stuck with the dishes after all that cooking.”

“I don’t mind. I enjoy it.” She transferred the leftover turkey to a plastic container. “I rarely get to cook a real dinner. Your father—” She stopped herself, reddening. “Ken works late, and he hates a big meal before bed.”

Charlie filled the sink with hot water. “I thought he was retired.”

“He was, for about a week.” She put the leftover turkey in the refrigerator. “After he sold the brokerage, he started a nonprofit company. He buys old houses and fixes them up, then sells them to poor families for cheap. He even helps them get mortgages. It’s a terrific project.”

“No kidding,” said Charlie. “What’s in it for him?”

Adulation, she thought. His picture in the paper. He gets to be a hero. Ken never spoke of the families he helped; he talked only about making deals, the way he always had. She remembered him in bed the night before his heart attack.
Miz Watkins and her struggling family.

“Well,” she said, “he doesn’t make a dime off of it, if that’s what you mean.”

Charlie smirked. “So he does it for the satisfaction? Out of the goodness of his heart?”

“You could say that.” Dinah scraped the plates at the sink. When she looked up, Charlie was staring at her.

“What?” she said.

“You look different.”

Dinah smiled. “You mean my birthmark. I had laser surgery many years ago.”

“Why?”

She cocked her head. “That’s funny. I’ve never had to explain it to anyone before.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. It’s a great question.” She stacked the plates in the dishwasher. “My whole life I thought something was terribly wrong with me. I figured everyone else thought so too.”

“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “I was just a kid, but I never gave it any thought at all. To me it was just the way you looked.” He placed a pot in the drainer.

“It was a fantastic dinner,” he said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. We have so little family, I rarely get a chance.”

She sensed him stiffen next to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was presumptuous.”