The Distance Between Us (10 page)

“Very good.” I reward him with a smile. “My ears still work just fine, by the way, in spite of my raging, epic alcoholism.” I pause. “Not to mention my uncontrollable penchant for seducing virile, eligible college men such as yourself.”

He shuffles from foot to foot for a moment, speechless. My mirth gets the better of me then, and I begin to laugh in earnest. I expect him to either sulk or protest, but once again it appears I’ve underestimated him; he has the good grace to know when he’s been beaten, and he even manages a weak, mortified chuckle before he flees the room.

I think I might grow fond of this boy, given enough time.

Living with three brilliant children was not easy, even in their pre-teen years. If they had been bright and docile it would have been one thing, but they were as volatile as they were intelligent, and even when they were very young they could not be easily
cowed, and ordinary things such as bath times and bedtimes often turned into substantive, presidential-type debates, or drawn-out battle campaigns with multitiered strategies, endless flanking maneuvers, and shifting alliances.

Paul, as the oldest, believed himself to be their leader, but in truth, Caitlin was always the real power behind the sibling throne—which I’m eternally grateful for, because if Paul
had
been in charge, he would have quickly turned the house into a Gothic, indoor version of
Lord of the Flies
before he reached puberty. Jeremy played the role of counselor to the queen, recognizing that his younger sister had a far subtler and more devious mind than Paul, and was more likely to come up with effective ways to subvert any and all rules Arthur and I attempted to enforce.

For instance, one Saturday afternoon I made the familiar weekly demand that they all clean their rooms. Normal children might have thrown tantrums, stalled, or whined to have avoided a chore like this, but such tactics were far too unrefined for the Donovan brood. In fact, at first I was foolish enough to believe that for once they were actually going to do as I asked without a struggle. I made the request on the front porch, and they rose without a word, as one, to do my bidding.

Or so I thought.

When I went to check on their progress, Caitlin’s room looked as if it had been ransacked by the KGB. The floor was cluttered knee-deep with everything that had been on her shelves and in her closet, and she was nowhere to be found. Paul and Jeremy’s rooms, however, were neat as pins, but the boys, too, were absent, and the house was silent. I went hunting for them, and given that all three were under ten years old at the time, I began to panic when a thorough search of the premises turned up nothing. I went to the kitchen and started making phone calls, attempting to track them down.

No one knew of their whereabouts. Arthur was out of town, none of the neighbors had seen them, and likewise none of their friends. I fretted by the phone for nearly half an hour, wondering if I should alert the police, but then I thought I heard a noise upstairs, coming from either Jeremy’s or Caitlin’s bedroom. I made a
mad dash for the steps and came to a halt on the landing outside their open doors.

Caitlin’s room was now perfectly clean and orderly, and Jeremy’s was a disaster.

And my children were still nowhere to be found.

Thus began a game of cat and mouse that lasted for nearly two hours before I finally snared one of the “mice.” It was Paul I first trapped; I hid in Arthur’s study and caught him climbing out of an empty clothes hamper in one of the guest rooms across the hall when he thought I was elsewhere in the house.

To this day, I still have no idea how the three of them evaded capture for so long, or accomplished this feat of alternating destruction and restoration. I ran all over the house, I waited in dark corners and I stood guard on stairwells, but they somehow worked their devilry, again and again. If Paul hadn’t become impatient, there’s no telling how much longer they could have kept it up, but once I had him in custody I coerced him into betraying the others, and soon I had all three at work under close supervision, undoing their most recent damage.

I was so torn between amusement and rage that I couldn’t speak coherently for the rest of the day, but I eventually found out it had all been Caitlin’s idea, and she had been planning this for some time.

When I asked her why she had decided on this course of action, all she said was, “Because I like making you crazy, Mom.”

It was outright rebellion, but with an ingenious twist, and it was calculated to push every button in my parental body.

Incidentally, Caitlin was five years old, Paul was nine, and Jeremy was seven.

Thank God they stopped cooperating when they got older.

I’m leaning out the door, retrieving my mail from the box on the porch when Alex walks Eric downstairs to let him out. I’m not inclined to be meeting a stranger at the moment and it puts me in a bit of snit to do so, because I’m still wearing my robe and slippers even though it’s almost noon, and my hair is a fright. I step back inside and frown at them as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

My eyes do a slow sweep of Eric. He’s a handsome child, as tall as Alex but more muscular, with light blue eyes and stately cheekbones. Unfortunately, the effect is altogether spoiled by a silly stocking cap, which has a single orange antenna on it rising up from the crown of his head like a wildflower.

“That cap is utterly ridiculous,” I growl, dropping my gaze to thumb through a small pile of envelopes and magazines in my hands.

He grins at me, unabashed. “Hi. I’m Eric Weber, Alex’s friend.” He holds out his hand. “My mom hates this cap, too. That’s why I bought it.”

I warm to his friendliness in spite of myself. “Good for you. I’m sure your poor mother appreciates the aggravation.” I take his fingers in my own and smile up at him. “I’m Hester Parker. Alex’s senile slumlord.”

He nods for a second, then his smile falls away and he blinks. “Wait a minute. Hester
Parker
?” He stares into my face and tightens his grip on my hand. “Oh, my God. I don’t believe it.” He looks dumbfounded. “Jesus Christ. You’re really her.”

“You’ve heard of me?” My ego doesn’t get stroked very often these days, and I’m more pleased than I should be by his undisguised awe. “I’m shocked.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Of course I’ve heard of you. My mom and dad have every record you ever made. I grew up listening to you.” He releases me and cuffs the back of Alex’s head. “Dude, I thought you said your landlady’s last name was Donovan. Why didn’t you tell me you were living with Hester Parker?”

Alex glances at me, startled, and I raise my eyebrows at him. He flushes and looks back at Eric. “I didn’t think you’d know who she was,” he mutters, rubbing his head.

I smooth the front of my robe. “I mentioned to Alex that I used to be a concert pianist of some reputation, but it appears he didn’t believe me.”

“Yes, I did,” he protests. “I even went to the library and listened to one of your recordings the other day. I meant to tell you how much I liked it but I forgot.”

That surprises me even more than Eric knowing who I am. I didn’t think Alex had any curiosity about me at all.

Eric suddenly slaps his forehead. “I’m so stupid. You’re Professor Donovan’s mom, right?”

I should have seen this coming. It always does.

I nod stiffly. “I’m afraid so.”

He chews on his lip. “Wow. Then that means her dad must be … holy shit.” He looks thunderstruck.

And here we are again.

“I couldn’t have said it any better myself.” Frost creeps into my voice. “Caitlin’s father is indeed the magnificent Arthur Donovan.” I inspect my fingernails before continuing. “Although I’m personally convinced that Caitlin was implanted in my womb by a hostile alien. One of these years I’m going to insist on a DNA test to prove it.”

Eric laughs, unfazed by the bitterness in my tone. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” He shakes his head again. “What a trip. My writing teacher’s parents are Hester Parker and Arthur Donovan. I can’t believe I’ve never made that connection before. I knew you guys lived in Bolton, but …”

He rattles on and on, but the mention of Arthur and Caitlin has stolen most of the pleasure out of his flattery. He eventually seems to notice I’m not saying anything else and slowly trails off under my quiet inspection.

He looks at the floor, uncomfortable. “Well, anyway, my folks will freak out when I tell them,” he finishes lamely.

There’s an awkward silence, and he squats to put on his shoes in a hurry. I look down at the top of his head, feeling an unexpected sense of remorse for quashing his enthusiasm. I should apologize for my manners, but I don’t know what to say; it seems lately that every conversation I have ends on a sour note.

Except with my new tenant, for some reason.

I glance over at Alex as this occurs to me, and I catch him watching me with a thoughtful expression.

I force a smile. “Do you see those unusual cloth garments your friend has on his feet, dear?” I ask. “Those are called ‘socks,’ and you wear them inside your shoes. Perhaps Eric will be kind enough to show you how to put some on, if you ask nicely.”

He smiles back at me. He’s all dressed now, except for his feet. “I would, but I don’t own any.”

I sigh in mock exasperation, glad to be speaking about something besides my family. “Oh yes, I forgot. You were a homeless, naked orphan when I found you on my porch.”

Eric laughs and stands up, at ease again. “That sounds about right.” He jabs Alex in the ribs. “I’ll take you to the Salvation Army later, if you want. Mrs. Parker’s right, buddy. Your wardrobe could really use an update.”

Alex scowls at him. “Is that where you got that classy Bugs Bunny shirt you’re wearing under your coat?”

He grins. “Ha. You’re even funnier than you look.” He holds out his fist for Alex to hit with his own, which seems to be their generation’s equivalent of a firm handshake. “So I’ll see you on campus this afternoon?”

Alex nods.

“Cool.” He gives Alex a quick hug, startling him.

I watch Alex’s face over Eric’s shoulder as he hugs him back; he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if he’s inhaling the other boy’s scent.

Eric releases Alex and turns to face me. “It was awesome meeting you, Mrs. Parker. This is probably rude to ask, but if I bring over some of my mom and dad’s old record albums, do you think I could get you to sign them?”

“Of course, child. I’d be delighted.” I pause. “But only after you return my brandy.”

He blushes and begins to stammer, but then he realizes I’m teasing him and he laughs and says good-bye. Alex and I stand side by side and watch him walk across the porch and down the driveway past St. Booger.

“He’s quite attractive,” I murmur. “And sweet, too, I should think.”

He doesn’t answer. Whatever he’s feeling about Eric, he’s not about to reveal it.

After a minute I clear my throat again. “Which recording of mine did you listen to?”

He tilts his head to look down at me. “Bach’s
French Suites.
It was great. I mean, you were great. I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Ah.” I lean my head on the screen door. My breath fogs up the
windowpane. “I made that recording the same year I married Arthur. He always claimed it was my best, but at that point in our relationship I could have played ‘Chopsticks’ with my knees and he would have thought it was divinely inspired.”

A car swings into the driveway and shoots up toward the house. It’s a red Volvo. I sag away from the glass as the car screeches to a halt next to the carriage house.

“How lovely,” I say. “It seems we have a surprise visitor.”

“Who is it?” he asks.

I don’t look at him. My eyes are fixed on the large, hairy man climbing out of the Volvo.

I take a deep breath. “I’m afraid you’d better make yourself scarce, dear. This is likely to be exceptionally unpleasant.”

He touches my shoulder. I try to mask my agitation, but my body gives it away by trembling.

“Who is it?” he repeats.

I purse my lips. “Who else?” I mutter. “The prodigal son, of course. My darling boy, Paul.”

W
hen did my son and I become enemies?

Paul is even heavier than he was the last time I saw him, and as he walks toward the house I can see him panting for air. His brown beard is wild and thick, and it’s speckled with small white dots that have recently sprouted all over it like mildew on a basement wall. Even before he reaches the porch I can see the fury in his face; his forehead is red and furrowed, and his eyes are narrow, puffy slits.

Dear God, how I’ve grown to detest this man.

It wasn’t always this way between us. Truly. Once upon a time, we even
liked
each other. I have a snapshot somewhere of the two of us in the music room, sitting side by side on the piano bench, when he was only twenty years old, and in the picture we’re looking at each other with open affection. His arm is touching mine, and his cello is resting on the floor beside the piano, next to a music stand and a chair.

Paul had a lovely smile when he was younger. His brown, liquid eyes were alert and intelligent, his face was delicate, and his body, though never athletic, was trim and elegant. He was the best looking of my children, and in many ways my favorite—partly because he was the oldest (and arguably the most musically talented), but mostly because he had a pointed sense of humor very similar to mine.

I don’t remember why we were sitting at the piano together; I
don’t even remember if it was Arthur or Caitlin or Jeremy who took the photo. But what I do remember is that our being close like that wasn’t a rare thing in those days. We had many such moments, probably even hundreds, and the camera just happened to catch us in the middle of one.

But that was a very long time ago.

He slips a little on a patch of ice in the driveway and then clumps up the steps and glares at me through the window of the screen door. I lock eyes with him and make no move to invite him in.

Alex hasn’t left my side yet. I know I should order him upstairs to the safety of his apartment, but I don’t have the heart to face Paul alone. Not that I expect Alex to be of much use in handling Paul, but I very much want someone nearby right now who doesn’t hate me.