Round Robin (12 page)

Diane stared. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”

“Funny, Mom,” Michael said, but he grinned, pleased.

Todd looked astounded. “Dude, what did you do to your hair?”

“I got it cut.” Michael flopped into a chair. “I don't want to give those guys any ammunition.”

A month ago, Diane never could have imagined she'd ever say the words she was about to speak. “I wish you wouldn't have. You don't need to change for them.”

But Michael merely shrugged. “It's just my hair. It's not me.” His eyes met hers, and for a moment Diane felt that they understood each other.

Her heart full of sorrowful pride, Diane took up the round robin quilt that had been so often studied and too long neglected. She chose fabric in a deeper shade of cream than what Sarah had used, for Sarah's fabric was too bright for this new feeling, for this not-yet-comprehensible sense that in fighting for her son's happiness she had done exactly what they needed her to do, so that regardless of the hearing's outcome, she would know she had not failed them.

She cut four large triangles from the cloth, knowing that although they came from the same fabric, and looked alike, and might even seem identical to an outsider, there were subtle differences among them—a more crooked line here, a sharper point there, an edge not quite as long as it should be. Some quilters would call them mistakes, these variations that made each piece unique, but now Diane knew better.

She sewed the longest side of each triangle to an edge of the round robin quilt, setting the design on point, forcing a new perspective. One triangle for Tim, one for Michael, one for Todd, and the last for herself. The two smaller tips of each triangle met the analogous angles of the triangles on its left and its right, like four members of a family holding hands in a circle, united at last.

H
e had thought about Sylvia often since that Sunday morning weeks ago when he had seen her on television. It was a shock, at first, to see the short gray hair where once there had been long, dark curls, but her spirit was the same, there was no doubt about that. The young woman who had spent so much of the program at Sylvia's elbow, though, the one who had made that joke about her mother—she was a mystery. She and Sylvia seemed close. Could she be a granddaughter? Had Sylvia married again after all? He didn't think so. He hoped not. If he'd had any idea that Sylvia would ever consider taking another husband, he would have stuck around.

A pang of guilt went through him. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded, Katy-girl,” he said aloud. He could picture her wagging a finger at him in mock reproach, and he grinned. No, Katy knew he wouldn't trade anything for the more than fifty years they had spent together. Those years had given him two children, a home, and a peace he had never dreamed he could possess. Katy never minded his limp, or his background, or the way he needed to be by himself every once in a while. When he woke in the darkness shaking and sweating from the nightmares, she had held him and shushed him and stroked his head until he could sleep again. In the mornings she would say nothing of his terror, leaving him his dignity.

He missed her. Sometimes he wished he had been the one to pass on
first. Katy would have managed fine without him, better than he had done without her. Then again, he wouldn't wish this loneliness on anyone, least of all his wife.

It sure would be nice to have her in the passenger seat, riding along beside him as they crisscrossed the country. Of course, if Katy were still alive, he wouldn't have sold the house and bought this motor home. She loved that little house. Over the years, as their nest egg had grown, he'd often suggested they find a bigger place, but she wouldn't hear of it. “Why move now, just when I have my garden the way I like it?” she had asked. Another time it was because the kids were in school, and then it was because all their friends lived in the neighborhood. But one by one their friends retired and moved to condos in Florida or rooms in their children's homes. His buddies at the VFW grew fewer and fewer. Some died, and all too soon Katy joined them.

The house was an empty shell without Katy, and he couldn't bear to remain. The kids agreed that selling the house was a good idea—and they both assumed he would be moving in with one of them. Bob's wife, Cathy, tempted him with descriptions of the California sunshine, while his daughter, Amy, promised him his own apartment over the garage and plenty of New England fishing trips with her husband. He had waited until after the sale to tell them he had other plans. They thought he'd lost his mind when he bought the motor home, and they tried to talk him out of it. They didn't succeed. Oh, he knew if he lived long enough there would come a time when he would no longer be able to look after himself, and then he'd be grateful for the kids' help. But not yet. He had much to do before then.

“They're great kids, Katy, but they think anyone over seventy is ready for the old folks' home,” he said. Still, although he wished he didn't seem so old and helpless in their eyes, he was glad that they wanted him. That proved he must have done something right all those years. He hadn't learned much from his own father about how to be a good parent, but he must have done all right in the end.

His philosophy about raising children had been simple: Do nothing that his own parents had done, and everything they had not.

The day Katy told him she was carrying their first, he had broken out in a cold sweat. He had been thrilled at the prospect of being a father, of welcoming a new life when he had seen so much death, but there had been fear enough to match his happiness. He worried about Katy, of course; he knew women could die in childbirth. But Katy was strong and healthy, and deep down he knew she'd be fine. What made him tremble from fear was the image of himself beating his son, of touching his daughter until she cried, of bludgeoning his wife's soul until she became a pale shadow of the vibrant woman he had married. He had seen this happen. Except for the few brief glimpses of the Bergstroms, this was the only family life he knew.

“You are not your father,” Katy had told him passionately. “You are the kindest and most loving man I've ever known. I wouldn't have married you if I didn't know this with my whole heart.”

He had wanted so much to believe her, but still he had feared the monster that might lurk within himself, cruelty passed to him along with his father's build and sandy hair.

When he held his daughter for the first time, so much love coursed through him that he knew he could never hurt a child of his and Katy's. But he would take no chances. He could not discipline his children the way the other parents in the neighborhood did; even when they had earned themselves a spanking he couldn't bear to raise a hand against them, or even to scold them. He would send them to their rooms instead, and go for long walks until his anger eased. When the children needed a scolding, it was up to Katy to provide it. “I always have to be the villain,” she would grumble, glaring at him as she marched upstairs to face a disobedient child. He and Katy had been able to resolve each and every disagreement that ever came between them, except for this one. He hoped that despite her exasperation she understood somehow, and if not, that she forgave him anyway.

When he came to a wayside, he pulled off the freeway and fixed himself a sandwich. He carried it and a can of soda outside to a picnic table near a patch of trees. There he sat, thinking, eating his lunch and watching the cars speed past.

He would be the first to admit that Katy and Sylvia were a lot alike. That's what had attracted him to Katy the first time he saw her at that dance. He had been struck by the dark hair, the confident way she had thrown back her head and laughed just from the pleasure of the evening. He was instantly transported back to the moment he had first seen Sylvia on horseback on the Bergstrom estate, riding around the ring, oblivious to her young brother's playmate, who had climbed the corral fence to watch.

“She's like a lady from a story,” he had said to Richard, awestruck.

“Who, Sylvia?”

“She's like—” Only seven, he fumbled for the words. “She's like a princess.”

This had sent Richard into hysterics, and he fell to the ground, where he rolled from side to side on his back, laughing.

His face went hot, and he quickly joined in the laughter so Richard wouldn't think him a sissy. Richard was his only friend. Everyone else at school shied away from him, frightened by his bruises or by something in his eyes, something his father had put there.

He knew Richard was wrong. Sylvia was a princess, and Elm Creek Manor was a paradise. He would do anything to live there with them, away from the shouts, away from his father's stick and his mother's weeping. He would bring his sister, and Mr. Bergstrom would adopt them and they would be safe. Even when he grew up he would never have to leave, never.

He had invited himself to live with them the day he turned eight. It had been the worst birthday ever. His parents had forgotten about it, and he had known better than to remind them. The teacher scolded him for forgetting to bring cookies for the class to share, and everyone but Richard had laughed at him. In truth, he hadn't forgotten the cookies. They didn't have a single cookie in the house or anything to make them with, but he wouldn't tell the teacher that, not with everyone watching and laughing.

That evening he stayed for supper at Richard's house, knowing those few pleasant hours would be well worth the licking they would surely
cost him. The Bergstrom house seemed so full of light and laughter. Sylvia quarreled with her elder sister, Claudia, sometimes, but that was nothing, nothing compared to what he saw at home.

After the meal he offered to help Sylvia clean up.

She thanked him and raised her eyebrows at her brother. “It's nice to know someone around here is a gentleman. We can't get Richard to lift a finger.”

For a moment he feared Sylvia's chiding would work and Richard would join them. But Richard must have been accustomed to Sylvia's teasing, for he stuck out his tongue at her and remained in his seat. And Sylvia merely laughed. She didn't strike him across the face or scream at him or anything. She
was
like a lady from a story, no matter what Richard said.

When they were alone in the kitchen, she washed the dishes and he dried them. As they worked, she talked to him as if he were a grown-up. It more than made up for the awful birthday.

He wiped the dishes slowly to make the moment last, and soon she finished washing and picked up another towel to help him. “I wish I were a boy,” she muttered, as if she had forgotten he was there. “The girls have to do all the work but the boys get to play.”

He nodded, thinking of what his sister suffered at their father's hands. He wouldn't want to be a girl, either. “I would always help you,” he said instead.

“No, you wouldn't. You'd be like all the rest of them.”

“I wouldn't,” he insisted, his heart pounding as he screwed up his courage. “If I could live here, I'd help you with the work every day, I promise. I'd do all the work myself so you could go play. If I could live here, please, I promise—”

Sylvia was staring at him.

It was all wrong, and he knew it. “It's just a joke,” he blurted out. “Richard dared me to say it. I didn't mean it. I'd hate to live here. Really.”

She watched him, bemused. “I see.”

“No, I don't really hate it here—I mean—” He didn't know what he meant. He felt a prickling in his eyes that warned him he might cry, and
it sickened him. He couldn't cry like a baby in front of Sylvia, he couldn't.

But Sylvia didn't seem to notice. “What did you win?” she asked, turning back to the dishes.

“Wh-what?”

“The dare. What did you win for the dare?”

“Oh.” He thought quickly. “Richard—he has to give me his lunch tomorrow at school.”

“I see.” She sounded impressed. “That's quite a prize. I'll have to make him an extra-big lunch tomorrow, won't I? Do you think maybe you could share it with him, so that he doesn't get too hungry to learn his lessons?”

“Oh, sure, sure.” He nodded so vigorously that his head hurt.

“Thanks.” She gave him a quick smile, then looked out the window. When she spoke again, her voice was casual. “It's too bad it was only a joke. We like having you around. You're always welcome here.”

He felt so pleased and proud he couldn't speak. He kept wiping that one dish until Sylvia laughed and took it from him, saying that if he kept it up he'd rub a hole through the china.

After that, Richard's lunches contained twice as much food as even a hungry growing boy could eat. And Richard always shared everything with him, split right down the middle.

Richard would have been a good man, if he had lived.

Sighing, he wadded up his trash and carried it to a garbage can. In a few minutes he was back on the road, heading east to his daughter's place in Connecticut.

As he pulled onto the Indiana Toll Road, he wondered if Sylvia remembered him. Probably not. He wrote to invite her to the wedding, but she didn't come. She didn't even write back. Claudia had, though, to tell him that Sylvia had left Elm Creek Manor but that Claudia would send his invitation to Sylvia's in-laws in Maryland. They would know how to reach her.

Claudia added a postscript informing him that she was Claudia Midden now and had been ever since she married Harold.

He went cold at the news. Yes, he had known that Claudia and Harold were engaged, but he never thought she'd go through with it. Hadn't Sylvia told her how Harold had let Richard and Sylvia's husband, James, die? He could never forget the view from that high bluff, the droning of planes overhead, the relief that turned to terror as their own boys fired upon them, the tank on the beach below exploding in flames. James, climbing out of the other tank and racing to help, as he himself had done, sprinting straight down the steep bluff to the beach, knowing he would never make it in time. In his nightmares he was forever running toward that tank, knowing Richard was inside, running with his feet sinking into the soft, wet sand, never gaining any ground. In the nightmares he could hear James's last words as he fought with the hatch, desperately trying to free his wife's beloved brother: “God damn it, Harold, help me! With two of us—”