The Distance Between Us (34 page)

I want so badly to speak to my husband again, and to tell him goodbye in a civilized fashion. I want so much to be given a chance to repair some of the damage between us, and to part company without killing each other. We have loved each other for decades; surely the two of us can still find a way to let go with dignity and compassion, and a measure of gratitude?

Surely there must still be a way?

I sigh, and return my attention to Alex. “Pushing for more than
what you can get is … well, it’s forgivable, my love. But I wouldn’t make it a habit.” I rest my head against the shingles, too. “You’re actually quite lucky it fell apart so soon, and that you’re still friends.”

He’s staring up at the stars, but I can tell he’s listening to me. Fresh tears run down his cheeks and he wipes them away.

“I guess.” He finally takes another swig of brandy and coughs, and his voice drops to where I can barely hear it. “But I really, really loved being able to touch him, and I’d give anything to still be able to do that.”

“I know.” I sigh again and pat his arm under the blanket. “And I’m sorry you’re not getting what you want. But trust me. It’s better this way.”

He searches my face for a long time. “Are you sure about that?”

I snort. “Don’t be silly. Of course not.”

He manages a grin. “Great. Thanks a lot.”

I lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. “My pleasure, dear. Always glad to help.”

There’s an odd, perfect moment of peace, then, as we watch the sky and listen to Eric snore. I feel the two boys breathing against my sides, and I note, with humility, the conspicuous silence of the ghostly voices in the house behind us, and I fill my lungs with cold, clean air and let it out again into the night, where it hovers before our faces like a cloud of pipe smoke.

And in my pocket, the phone rings.

I
t’s late morning and I’m driving home from the hospital, nursing a five-alarm hangover from yesterday. Arthur was still asleep when I arrived to visit him, and Caitlin was no longer at his side, so I had no choice but to speak with Martha in the hallway outside his room. Our whispered conversation was quick and unfriendly, but I managed to extract a promise from her to tell Arthur I’d stopped by, and would return later today to see him.

The surgery, though difficult, was an apparent success. The nurse who called last night (while the boys and I were stargazing on the roof) assured me Arthur would live to fight another day, at least, and that he might even be around for many more years.

Assuming he takes better care of himself.

But for some reason her cheerful words didn’t sink in yesterday evening. I didn’t really expect him to pull through, and until I saw him dozing in his bed a few minutes ago, I was convinced I would never see him again. And then there was Martha to deal with, and a hallway full of strangers as I was leaving, so I am only now digesting the fact of his likely recovery.

Only now.

Relief surges through me, and my eyes fill, blurring the road through the windshield. I brush them away but more take their place and I’m forced to pull over to the curb and have a good cry. I park in an illegal space next to a fire hydrant, but I’m on a quiet side street, and in no danger of being harassed by a meter maid. There’s
a large oak tree next to the hydrant, spreading its leafless branches above my head. It reminds me of a minister giving the benediction at the end of a church service.

I let the tears course down my face, let myself sob in gratitude and grief. Arthur will live, and I will have to live without him.

Thank you, God, for sparing him.

Damn
you, God, for sparing him.

It was one thing to sit on my roof last night (when Arthur’s demise seemed imminent) and know I needed to get on with my life, but how do I actually
do
that, now, in the clear light of day, when he’s still very much alive?

I dig a tissue out of my purse and blow my nose, and I stare out the windshield at the picturesque little neighborhood surrounding my car. It’s a Saturday morning, and no one is outside except for a pair of young girls down the street, building a snowman in their yard. Everything is pure white from the heavy snowfall of the last few weeks, except for the gray concrete of the shoveled sidewalks, and the bright yellow fire hydrant beside me, and the matching blue coats and red scarves the girls are wearing.

I remember all three nights Arthur and I made each of our children, or at least I think I do. I remember him resting on top of me as we finished making love. He stayed inside of me, as well, for a long, peaceful time. I remember his handsome, sweaty young face, beardless in those years, pressed against my cheek, and the instinctive feeling that something was different afterwards. I suppose it’s ridiculous to say I know, for certain, the three specific times when we created our children. But we quite often used protection of one kind or another to prevent any surprises, and so although there were hundreds of fine, loving moments in our bed, there were only a handful of occasions when it was likely he could have gotten me pregnant.

And three times, only, when I felt as if he and I had somehow changed the world.

The evening I told Arthur I was pregnant with Jeremy, he was performing the Brahms
Violin Concerto
with the Chicago Symphony. He went on stage mere hours after I revealed the information about the new tenant in my womb, and he stood in the
spotlight, gazing out into the darkness of the concert hall. He placed his violin between his neck and shoulder, and stood there smiling as the orchestra played the intro. When it came time for his entrance, his bow bit into the strings with such passion that I thought the seams of his instrument would fly apart.

He knew where I was sitting in the audience, and though I’m positive he could barely make out my face through the glare of the spotlight, his eyes never left me for an instant. It was the most public declaration of love I’ve ever witnessed, and the most thrilling musical performance I’ve ever heard. He gave away every emotion he was feeling, every ounce of happiness and serenity in his entire body; he emptied himself in front of thousands of people, until he was nothing but a husk on the stage when the piece had ended.

It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. He surrendered himself, utterly, to his art; he stripped himself down to nothing but spirit and fire. And he did that for me. For me, and for the unborn child I was carrying within me.

That’s
why I loved him. And why I still love him, in spite of everything. Because anybody who can do what he did on the stage that night has a ferocious, open soul, regardless of how he behaves in every other arena of his life. And sometimes that soul of his shines out when I least expect it—when he’s washing the dishes, or trimming his beard at the bathroom sink, or dozing in his chair by the fire after supper. I can’t exactly tell you how, but I’ll glance over at him and he’ll be glowing like a firefly.

And I suppose that’s why I’m sitting in this freezing car on this fine winter morning, weeping my eyes out.

Because Arthur Donovan is still in the world. And because I can no longer have him.

Paul’s red Volvo is parked in my driveway when I arrive home, and as I notice it from the street my heart nearly stops beating.

Oh, Lord. Now what?

A horrid thought races through my mind.

Did I remember to lock the house when I left this morning?

After Arthur moved out, I changed all the locks in the house, and made a point of not giving a new key to either Caitlin or Paul.
But more often than not these days I forget to lock the door on my way out, and I was in a hurry this morning to get to the hospital, and …

And Paul is not in his car, or on the porch. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Alex and Eric are probably still asleep in the attic. And if Paul is even half as drunk as he was yesterday morning, Alex could be in serious danger.

I fly up the driveway in my Toyota and barely avoid slamming into the Volvo as I stomp on the brakes. My engine stalls and I jump from the car and run toward the house as fast as I’m able. My headache is enormous and each footstep is a gunshot to my temples, but I don’t slow for anything until I’m on the porch and at the door.

The wide-open door.

I burst into the house, praying Paul is sitting in the kitchen or living room, waiting for me. And that he’s sober.

There’s no one downstairs. It’s just as I left it this morning, dark and quiet. The bottle of Motrin I set out on the kitchen table (in case Alex awoke and needed pain medication while I was gone) is untouched.

But there are wet footprints on the stairs. The ones on the lower steps still have little globs of melting snow in them, so Paul must not have gotten here too far ahead of me.

When the boys and I came inside from the roof last night, Eric staggered into Alex’s living room and passed out on his couch. Alex was still functional enough (barely) to see me safely downstairs to my bedroom, and then he stumbled back up to his bed, where he no doubt has been dead to the world ever since.

So dead he won’t hear Paul coming until he’s right on top of him.

“Paul?” I call out in panic.
“Alex?”

There’s no answer from the attic. There’s no sound at all, anywhere in the house, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the study.

I charge up the stairs, which at my age is no easy feat. I’m in fair shape for a seventy-one-year-old woman, but I’ve never been a fan
of aerobic activity, and the three staircases facing me are steep and long. The last time I even attempted such a thing was when Jeremy was out on the roof that final cold winter morning.

Out on the roof, getting ready to kill himself.

I cry out in terror, and my lungs almost rip with the effort.
“Alex! Eric! Wake up!”

And that’s when the yelling begins in the attic.

It’s Alex’s voice I hear first, as I reach the landing by my bedroom.

“Get the fuck out of here, Paul!” he shouts. He sounds very frightened.

I turn the corner and grab at the handrail for support as I trip up the next flight of stairs.

“What the hell?”

That’s Eric’s voice, blurry and alarmed. I try to hasten my steps and I lose my balance for an instant, banging my knee into the wall. I bite my lip and regain my footing, and I keep going even though my kneecap hurts like the devil.

I curse myself for leaving my purse in the car. It has my cell phone in it, and if I had a brain in my head I would have already called the police. I also could have used the phone in the kitchen, or the one in my bedroom, but there’s no time to go back now.

I finally arrive on the landing by Arthur’s studio (where there
was
a phone, too, I remember bitterly, until I removed it to replace the one I wrecked after arguing with Paul), and from here I’m close enough to hear everything clearly. It sounds as if they’re all in Alex’s kitchen, and their voices echo down the last set of stairs as I stop to catch my breath before resuming my climb. I’m so winded I don’t know how I can keep going, but I have to get there before something terrible happens.

“I don’t know who you are, dick,” Paul rumbles, “but if I were you I’d stay the fuck out of this.” He must be talking to Eric, but his tone changes as he apparently turns his attention to Alex. His voice is so hostile it’s almost unrecognizable. “We’re gonna have a talk now, you little shit.”

He’s clearly out of his head, again. There’s no other explanation.
He would never do something this outlandish if he were sober. Paul is a difficult man, and a bully, but he’s not insane.

My heart is beating wildly, and I put my hand on my chest in sudden fear of having a heart attack of my very own.

Maybe they’ll put me in the same room with Arthur at the hospital. Martha would have a fit.

I force myself to wait another moment before taking another step. I’ll be of no use to the boys if I reach the top of the stairs and die of a stroke.

Alex and Eric are both in far better shape than Paul. I noticed last night that Eric, especially, appears quite strong, and has the build of an athlete. But I hope neither of them makes the mistake of thinking they can handle Paul, in spite of that. He has fifty pounds on either of them, and he’s drunk and enraged, and likely to do anything.

Anything at all.

“Be careful, man,” I hear Alex say. “This guy is out of his fucking mind.”

Thank God. At least Alex knows enough to be cautious.

“We’re just gonna have a talk, punk,” Paul says. “Tell your little friend to get lost.”

I tug myself up another step, frantic, and almost retch from the effort. That mad dash up the first two flights of stairs was almost the death of me. I try to call out again, but I have no air in my lungs and can only gasp.

There’s a heavy stomping noise, and one of the boys cries out, “Oh, shit!” Then a tremendous clang reverberates through the house, and what sounds like several chairs and possibly the table being knocked over with a huge clatter.

“Goddammit!” Alex bellows. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I force myself to move. No matter what, I have to get up there. Each step is an agony, but I will not stop until I reach the attic.

There’s the sound of glass breaking, and what has to be plates shattering. I’m halfway up the staircase and I almost black out from anxiety and exertion, and then I hear Paul start to laugh.

“Christ,” he says. “She’s still got this fucking picture up here
from when I was in high school. Damn, I was a good-looking kid, don’t you think?”

A moment later I hear more glass shattering, and a surge of adrenaline finally gets me moving again. I sail up the last few stairs and come to a grinding halt in the doorway of the kitchen.

Paul is standing with his back to me, facing the boys. He’s huge and terrifying, resembling a grizzly bear in his winter coat. The table and chairs are overturned and scattered throughout the room, and the skylight and the other window have both been knocked out. The floor is covered with broken glass and dinnerware, and a cold wind is whipping through the jagged remains of the windows, turning the place into a freezer.