The Distance Between Us (4 page)

“Shit,” Alex mutters. Both of his hands are clutching the dash.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. You’re behaving like an old woman.”

He glowers at me. “That’s only because you’re driving like one.”

I narrow my eyes. “And I suppose you think you could do better?”

He nods. “Yeah, I do. I’m a good driver.” He pauses. “Do you want me to take the wheel?”

I face front again and proceed through the intersection, fuming. He fidgets in his seat for the next few blocks and I turn up the radio and stare through the windshield at downtown Bolton until I can decide how best to deal with his rudeness.

My house is on the north side of town, and Carson Conservatory and Pritchard University are on the south side. Bolton is a clean, attractive town, with wide brick streets and dozens of historical buildings and homes lined up along the Mississippi. An imposing
courthouse sits in the middle of the village green, next to a pedestrian mall made up of busy bookstores and coffee shops, restaurants, bars, and a plethora of overpriced antique and clothing establishments. There’s generally not a lot of money in southern Illinois, but Bolton’s association with two thriving academic institutions has kept it more financially sound than many of its neighbors up and down the river.

My silence is bothering Alex. He keeps darting glances at the side of my face and biting his lip.

Good. If I let him stew for a while, he may learn some manners.

He finally clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

I allow a moment to pass. “You’re forgiven.” I should just let it go at that, I suppose, but I can’t resist a small dig. “Do you talk to your mother that way? If you do, it’s a wonder you’ve lived to be twenty.”

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “I’ve said a lot worse to her.” His voice is subdued.

I wait for more but nothing is forthcoming. I prod him along. “Speaking of your mother, I keep meaning to ask where you grew up. Where’s home?”

He turns his head away. “Iowa.”

“Oh? Where in Iowa?”

He plays with the button on the glove compartment. “I don’t really like to talk about stuff like that.” His tone is hostile.

I stare at him, caught off guard. “Why on earth not?”

He meets my gaze. “I just don’t. Okay?”

He’s being unreasonable, and silly.

“Fine. Shall we discuss the weather, then? How about movies?”

He makes an exasperated gesture with his hands. “I didn’t mean that. We can talk about anything you want. Just not my home, or my family.” He stares at his shoes on the floor mat and lowers his voice. “Please?”

Without warning, he sounds close to tears, and I reprimand myself for prying. He’s right. I have no claim on him, and he’s entitled to his privacy, just as much as I am.

I nod. “Forgive me, Alex. I was being discourteous.”

I’m expecting him to pout now, but all he does is shrug again. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to make such a big deal out of it.”

The resentment is gone, replaced by a surprising sweetness.

It seems I’ve underestimated this boy. It’s a rare gift to let go of anger so quickly.

God knows I’m no good at that myself.

We reach the intersection of River Road and Crescent Street, and I pull up to the stoplight and put on my turn signal. Pritchard and Carson are on River Road about a mile and a half from here. Bolton has only eighteen thousand people in it, but when Pritchard University is in session that number goes up to nearly twenty-seven thousand. (Carson Conservatory has as enrollment of less than seven hundred, so if you see a college student around town it’s a good bet he attends Pritchard rather than Carson.)

Alex points at the radio. “What’s this music?”

I cock my head and listen. The Brahms sonata finished a few moments ago, and has been replaced by an orchestral work I don’t immediately recognize. I sift through the possibilites and settle on what seems the most likely.

“Shostakovich, I should think. I don’t know this particular piece, but I’m certain it’s something of his.”

He gapes at me. “You’ve never heard it before, but you still know who wrote it?”

“The orchestration gives it away. Listen to those cellos, and to the percussion. It’s definitely Russian, and mid-twentieth century …” I turn up the radio for a few more bars. “Yes. It’s Shostakovich. The humor and pathos simply reek of him.”

He seems impressed. “How can you do that?”

His admiration is endearing. I smile at him. “Any classical musician worth her salt can do the same thing, child. Every well-known composer has a distinctive style, and I’ve been trained to recognize it, that’s all.”

He shakes his head as if he doesn’t believe me. “That’s really cool. I wish I could do that.”

Pritchard’s campus looms up on the right, between the road and the river.

“What’s your first class?” I ask, slowing.

He sighs. “Creative writing.”

“With Caitlin?”

“Yeah. It’s in Higdon Hall.” He becomes self-conscious. “Sorry. I guess you already know where she teaches.”

“Indeed. Higdon Hall has always been closely identified with Caitlin’s reign of terror. She used to put the heads of her foes on spikes outside the main doors, but the administration made her stop for fear of declining enrollment.”

He laughs. “That’s pretty funny.”

I pretend to be amused as well, but I don’t tell him that it’s been years since I’ve been anywhere near my daughter’s domain. Or that my heart is speeding up a great deal at the mere thought of accidentally running into her this morning.

As I pull into the parking lot by the English building, I can see the Mississippi in the distance. Most of the water is frozen on the surface, except for an uneven path down the middle, big enough for tugboats and barges to navigate between the thin black ice reaching out for fifty or sixty yards from each bank toward the center. (This stretch of the Mississippi south of St. Louis is relatively narrow, probably only two or three hundred yards across, and I’ve been told that towns like Bolton run frequent icebreakers between the locks, keeping the river open for local businesses to ferry items back and forth.) Late at night, from anywhere in Bolton, you can hear the foghorns on the barges as they pass by, wailing in the mist like male banshees, but right now nothing is out there but a small flock of geese or ducks, resting together on the ice by the opposite shore.

I step on the brake by the walkway between Higdon Hall and the cafeteria, and the car slides on the ice again and bangs into the curb before I can do anything about it.

Alex tenses in his seat, then turns to face me. He actually rolls his eyes at me and starts to say something.

I shake my finger at him. “Not a word. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

He grins at me as he opens his door. “Okay. Whatever.” He gets
out, then leans his head back in before closing the door. “Thanks for the ride, Hester. See you tonight?”

I nod at him. “Yes. I’ll be curled up by the fire with a glass of wine and a book as soon as I finish teaching.”

He smiles again. “Word.”

I tilt my head. “Excuse me? Is that supposed to mean something?”

His smile broadens. “It just means it sounds good.”

I shoo him from the car. “Go to school. I hope my daughter can teach you how to speak properly.”

He shuts the door and I watch his back until he disappears into Higdon Hall.

A
rthur’s car is in the driveway when I get home, blocking access to the carriage house. It’s a black Lincoln Continental, with a Carson Conservatory Faculty sticker in the rear window, and the license plate on the back says AMATI (in reference to his cherished and obscenely expensive violin). He’s parked right in front of St. Booger, and I have to leave my own car by the curb in the street and walk up to the house. The statue has a slight scowl on its face, and its crossed eyes are staring down at Arthur’s car with displeasure, but the severity of poor Booger’s expression is undercut by a glob of half-melted snow on his head, in the shape of a beanie.

St. Booger is truly an eyesore. Besides the revolting things I mentioned about him to Alex the other night (the chopped-off fingers, uneven legs, and patches of dead mold sprouting from his nose and ears), one of his cheekbones sticks out more than the other, and there’s an unsightly, goiter-like bulge on the left side of his neck. His face is also pocked with dozens of little acne-like craters, probably from standing outside in too many hailstorms. Lord, what an atrocity.

I walk up to the front door and when I step on the porch I can see Arthur’s large head and shoulders through the window of my living room. He’s wearing a heavy brown sweater, and he’s standing with his arms crossed, glaring out at me. I take a deep breath and walk in, knowing exactly how this conversation is likely to go. The
love of my life is now my worst enemy, and we haven’t had a civil exchange in months.

I take off my coat in the entryway and step into the living room. He’s still standing with his back to me.

I sigh. “Why, Arthur! What a pleasant surprise. Have you moved back home, then? You can sleep in the carriage house until we’ve ironed some things out.”

He turns to face me with open anger. His thick gray hair is cut shorter than usual, and his mouth is drawn down at the corners in severe lines, making him look like a toy soldier nutcracker. His skin is blotchy with ire, but he’s still a terribly handsome man, with white, even teeth and bushy gray eyebrows the same color as his beard. His eyes are gray, too, and cold, with crow’s-feet at the corners.

“Don’t you dare start with me, Hester,” he rumbles. “Not after what you did to my table.”

I sit down in my chair. “I don’t understand what you’re so upset about, dear. As I mentioned on the phone earlier, it was an unfortunate accident.”

“That is unmitigated bullshit.” His voice isn’t loud, but his words are clipped and fast. “You deliberately destroyed a priceless heirloom out of pure spite and jealousy.” He pauses. “No doubt you were drunk at the time, too.”

There’s a quiet click of the door shutting in the entryway, and I glance over in time to see Alex stepping in. Arthur doesn’t hear him, and the boy is out of his line of vision because he’s standing behind a partial wall that separates the entry and the living room. I swear silently and keep my eyes on Arthur, hoping Alex will somehow manage to get upstairs without my husband seeing him. Arthur will not take kindly to my having taken on another tenant without his consent. From the brief glimpse I had of Alex’s face, I can tell he knows he’s stepped into a hornet’s nest. He’s frozen still in the entryway, next to the umbrella can.

I gaze straight ahead and force a smile. “Why, Arthur, what a terrible thing to say. Haven’t you been listening? I already told you that as I was walking through the study, the sledgehammer just slipped out of my hands and fell on your table. I feel sick about it.”

Arthur is breathing loudly. “Yes, you mentioned that. But you also failed to explain what you were you doing in the study with a sledgehammer.”

“I don’t recall.” I hug myself. “Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but I rather enjoyed the sound of the hammerhead going through the table top. It made a very satisfying crunch, and splinters went flying every which way.”

I can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the study. Arthur’s voice is almost toneless. “My father gave me that table. Good God, Hester, could you possibly have done anything more childish and selfish?”

His sanctimony is unbearable.

I sit up straight. “Well, yes, Arthur, I believe I could. For instance, I could have had a fifteen-year affair with a sweaty, buxom slut behind my spouse’s back. Don’t you think that might qualify as being somewhat more ‘childish and selfish’ than chopping up a piece of furniture?”

He starts to splutter and I cut him off. “Yes, my love, I realize we’re speaking of apples and oranges, but I’m just trying to keep things in perspective.”

I adjust the sleeve of my dark red sweater. “And by the way, I had the table appraised before I burned it. It was made in the 1970s by a knockoff artist who specialized in cheap imitations of colonial furniture. Your precious heirloom was worth less than a Scooby-Doo TV tray.”

“That’s a lie.” The floor creaks as he steps forward. He’s now in a position to see Alex, should he turn his head. Fortunately, he’s too fixated on me to notice anything else. He tugs at his full gray beard in frustration. “You know you’ve done something wrong, and now you’re trying to make yourself look better by lying. You’ve always done that.”

He leans down so his face is level with mine, and he puts his palms on the arms of my chair. “You forget how well I know you, Hester.” His voice drops. “Do you have any idea how sick I am of you?”

I used to love this man more than my own life, and he loved me
just as much. Now all our words to each other hang in the air like nerve gas.

I flinch a little, but I don’t look away from him. I refuse to give him the pleasure of winning this dispute.

“Join the club, dear.” I clear my throat. “But as long as we’re on the subject of telling lies, how’s Martha? Would you like to spread her out on our bed this afternoon for old time’s sake? I could go out for coffee and give you two kids the run of the place for an hour or so, if you’re too self-conscious to do it while I’m here.”

He straightens. “There’s no talking to you.”

He’s trying to hide his feelings, but shame is written all over him.

I drum my fingers on my chin and smile. “Or if you prefer, I’ll play the piano to help set the mood while the two of you are fornicating. Any requests? How about Stravinksy’s
Polka for Circus Elephants?
It might remind Martha of home.”

He glowers down at me. “That’s not even remotely funny. And for your information, Martha’s lost a great deal of weight recently. She looks stunning.” He rubs his temples. “Besides, I prefer my women to have a little meat on their bones.”

In truth, Martha Predel is a strikingly beautiful woman, and twenty years my junior. But she carries a few extra pounds on her small frame, and I can use this to my advantage. It may be petty, but at this point I’ll take whatever weapon comes to hand.