Twilight Child (13 page)

 Finally she
had kissed Tray's head, his soft blond hair like Chuck's, and held him at arm's
length.

 “Now you
remember the proverb Grandma taught you.” She had embroidered it in petit
point, and it had hung, suitably framed, on all her classroom walls.

 She watched
Tray's eyes, so like hers and Chuck's, sparkling in a flash of sunlight.

 “Do unto
others as you would have”—he kicked his toe into the patio's edge, then looked
up again—“as you would have others do unto you.”

 “And what do
they call that?”

 “The Golden
Rule, Gramma.”

 She had
pulled herself up to her full height, which was a few inches taller than
Frances. Then why are we bending it? she had thought to herself. She embraced
her daughter-in-law, willing herself to go beyond tears, as Frances was doing,
knowing that they were both deliberately resisting the womanly cliché of
disintegrating into inconsolable guilt-drenched tears. We'll both cry later,
she thought.

 “Do I have to
go now, Mommy?” Tray asked. “Can't I stay here with Gramma and play?”

 “I'm afraid
not,” Frances replied.

 “Only for a
little while. Pleeeez.”

 “Not now,”
Molly said, turning so he wouldn't see her tears. She wished she could say
more, but it was impossible to go on.

 “But why?”

 “Because,”
Frances said. After all, what more was there to say?

 Before he was
out of sight, Molly had turned again, watching the child disappear in the mist
of her anguish. She saw him wave and could barely muster the strength to wave
back. Then she had collapsed on her knees on the patio.

 But
confronting Charlie was, hands down, the most painful part of the episode.
Frances must have known it would be, must have chosen the moment precisely, the
day before she, Tray, and Peter were to leave for Syracuse to prepare for the
wedding. Until then Charlie had been threatening wildly not to attend “out of
respect for Chuck.” Molly had been cautioning him on going too far, fearful of
alienating Peter, who could punish them through Tray. Her reasoning galled her,
and the irony was, even now, as painful to remember as to confront.

 Charlie's
reaction was explosive. There had been no way to break the news gently. It had,
of course, confirmed her husband's most potently paranoid fear, the loss of his
grandson. Of their grandson, she corrected in her mind.

 “You can't be
serious.” She had expected disbelief, then denial, which came predictably. “I
don't believe it. No. It can't be true.”

 “It's a
temporary thing,” she had said, words that would be flung back at her ad
infinitum. “Understandable from her point of view.” Was it to calm him with
reason or feed his anger?

 “I won't
stand for it.” Actually, she remembered, he had sat down, looking suddenly
shriveled like a sail without wind. “She can't do that.”

 “She can and
will,” Molly had said with firmness, offering him a kind of statement of
finality. “It's an emotional time for her. She's frightened. She doesn't want
any upsetting ripples. Not now.”

 “We're the
child's grandparents, for crying out loud. You don't just cut off grandparents.
It's not human.” The sudden weakness caused by the initial shock had worn off
swiftly, and he had bounced out of the chair and begun to pace the room,
directing all his anger and frustration in Molly's direction. She had expected
nothing less. “I always knew she was a mean bitch. All quiet and sweet on the
surface. Now I can see why Chuck couldn't stand to be with her. He would still
be here today, if he hadn't married that woman. You see?” He had waved a finger
in front of Molly's nose, but she had chosen to stand her ground, to take the
assault. “I was right and you were wrong. Why do you think he went away to risk
his life? He ran from her. Couldn't stand being near her. That's why. Well, I
have no intention of letting her get away with it. Not with my boy's son. Not
with Tray. I swear I won't let her get away with it. Never.”

 “You have no
say in this, Charlie,” she said quietly, knowing it would focus his anger more
directly on herself. He had begun to pace the room like a caged animal,
suddenly stopping in front of her, his face distorted with rage. There was
nothing to do but let him rant. It was a futile gesture, especially for an
essentially good and gentle man. But at that point any sign of pity on her part
would only have made things worse. He shook a threatening finger at her face.

 “I blame you
most of all for being so accepting of Chuck's decision to marry her. She hated
her uncle. All she wanted was to get the hell out of that situation. I was
right. She was one lousy wife, too. Now she's getting married while Chuck's
body is still warm. There's the proof that she never did love him. She couldn't
have loved him. How could she have loved him and jumped into another man's bed
so soon after—? You could have stopped it. A woman knows about other women. Men
are stupid about things like that.” His voice had broken. “Now Chuck's dead
because of it, and she's going to take Tray away from me as well.”

 “From us,”
she had corrected softly. He hadn't paid the slightest attention.

 “Well, I'm
not going to let her get away with it.” He was smoldering now like red hot
ashes.

 “It's not
forever, Charlie,” she said, forcing herself to remain calm. “We have to give
it time.”

 “That's what
you say.” She could see the flames erupting again. He turned away and paced the
room, muttering to himself. Soon he was running a full head of macho steam,
strutting and posturing. He punched his chest. “I'm not going to let her get
away with it. No way. I've had it with her.”

 “It's not
only her,” she said protectively.

 “No way,” he
said, listening only to his harsh inner voices. It was sad and futile, like
someone spitting into the wind.

 But when he
had stormed out of the house, she became alarmed and ran after him to the
garage. He had gotten into the car and had slammed and locked the door, gunning
the motor, its sound echoing his fury. She tried to open the door, then beat on
the window with her fists. Later she had wondered why she had not simply stood
in front of the car, blocking it with her body. Was she afraid that he would
run her over? No, she was dead certain he would not do that. He would never
have gone against his own instincts. Then why had she not done it? Because she
had wanted him to go, because she had wanted him to make this last-ditch effort
to save Tray for them.

 But she had
dashed to the telephone to warn Frances, only to be rebuffed by a recording
that Frances's telephone had been disconnected. She had even toyed with the
idea of calling the police, but it revolted her. She had always looked down her
nose at families who needed police action to intervene in domestic quarrels. It
was demeaning, unworthy of mature people. It was a ten-minute drive to
Frances's apartment. She had felt totally helpless, unable to think or function
logically. She could have called for a taxi. But she didn't. The waiting became
agony. In her memory, it was the hour of her greatest terror.

 It was Peter
who had finally called her.

 “He came in
like a lion and went out like a lamb,” Peter had said. “I knew you'd be
worried. I guess he'll ride around a bit. Maybe stop at a bar.”

 “Charlie's
not much of a drinker. It's not his way.” She had resented the implication.

 “At first, I
thought he might be violent. Thankfully, Tray was at a neighbor's.”

 “He didn't
even see Tray?”

 “Frances got
him from the neighbors.

 “At least
Charlie got to see him. Did it tear him up?”

 “It wasn't a
very happy moment for him. I can tell you Tray was also shaken up.”

 “It could
have been avoided, Peter.”

 “I don't
think so, Molly. It's a lot more complex than meets the eye. And really, you
must understand it has nothing to do with you or Charlie.”

 “Nothing?
Tray is our grandchild.”

 “I understand
that,” he said sympathetically. “But there is a question of priorities.” There
was that word again, she thought.

 “I think your
decision is wrong,” she said. Thinking of Charlie's anguish, the fight had gone
out of her.

 “Maybe so.
But we must have this chance. And we're not saying it will be forever.”

 “Yes. I heard
all that this afternoon.”

 There was a
long pause. She listened attentively for any regretful sigh, but none came.

 “I'm just
calling to say that Charlie is all right, as well as can be expected, and that
I'm sorry. With a little patience, things might work out for all of us. The
main thing is Tray.”

 Peter had
hung up and she remembered that she had held the phone for a long time, until
she heard the car purring back into the garage. She did not go out to greet
him. He had cut the motor but did not appear for a long time. Molly had waited,
seated in the living room. Then he came in. He was definitely not the same man
who had left less than an hour before. Ashen, he was the picture of defeat,
more broken than he had been at the news of Chuck's death. Be strong, she
begged herself, although her own hurt was, she was sure, equal to his.

 He dropped
onto a chair in the kitchen like a puppet that had been cast aside, no longer
needed for the show.

 “I couldn't
stand it,” he whispered. “Saying good-bye. I broke down.” He looked as if he
might be getting ready to do that again. His nose was runny, and his eyes were
red from crying. He swallowed hard. “He asked me why I was crying.” He was
falling apart. She came toward him and laid his head against her breast.

 “It will be
all right, Charlie. A little patience. It will be. You'll see,” she whispered,
forcing her stability. While he was in this state, she knew, she needed to
appear strong. He desperately needed her to lean on.

 “And—” He
started to talk, stopped; then, forcing a brief sense of control, he continued.
“ ‘Grampa,' he asked me, ‘where does it hurt?' He asked me that. Where
does it hurt?” He trembled and sobbed for a moment, then managed to speak
again. “I told him . . . ‘Tray,' I said. ‘It hurts everywhere.'
Everywhere. . . .” Then he broke down again.

 That night
they had clung to each other in bed not merely like two spoons, but like one.
How else were they expected to get through that dreadful night?

 Sitting in
the den now, having difficulty concentrating on her papers, she concluded that
remembering was both painful and necessary. You couldn't hide from life.
Ultimately, everything had to be faced squarely. There was still life ahead,
she assured herself, looking at the papers. At least she had her work and the
opportunity to see hope on the faces of her fifth-grade children. There was
renewal in that, she decided, thankfully. Unfortunately, Charlie did not have
that opportunity, she thought sadly, and that made it doubly necessary for her
to husband her courage and gather the shreds of optimism.

 Poor Charlie.
She had tried to buck him up as he confronted the looming horror of early
retirement. At first it had been an option, then a necessity. All his choices
had narrowed, then closed.

 “I fought for
this country,” he had said, a theme he had taken up often, as if his present
state was because of some national betrayal.

 “You can't
blame it on the country,” she had countered sensibly.

 “Then what?”

 It was a
question that defied any soothing answer.

 She heard him
stamping his boots on the mat outside, then his footsteps moving into the
house. He seemed to have chucked the yard chores earlier than usual. But then
Sundays were not special for him anymore. She listened, unable to focus on the
papers. He was making coffee in the coffee maker. He was always dosing himself
with caffeine.

 Soon he was
sitting opposite her in the den, and she put aside her papers to give him her
undivided attention. On Sundays, certainly, he was entitled to that.

 “Might as
well face it, Molly,” he said, a cigarette dangling from his lips, both hands
cupping the mug for warmth. She felt encouraged by the talk. He was right: They
had better face facts. “They have no damned intention of answering.”

 “That's the
way it looks, doesn't it?”

 “Lawyers,” he
said, removing his cigarette. Some of the paper stuck to his lips. “Pack of
liars. Doesn't matter to them.”

 “That's not
fair, Charlie. He laid it out for us.”

 “Leaves us
hanging.”

 When he did
not speak for a long time, she feared that he was falling back into silence.

 “We could
always cut and run.” She knew it would shock him into alertness.

 “You want
that?”

 “No, I
don't,” she said firmly. “I want Tray.”

 “Damned
right,” he agreed. “We're in it for the whole nine yards.”

 “There's no
sense brooding about it,” she said. “That's not the way a boxer prepares
himself.” She smiled. “Do unto others before they do unto you.” He chuckled.
That saying always got a rise out of him.

 He sipped his
coffee, then punched out his cigarette and lit another. It was not a time for
admonishment. “It'll start really costing now.” He became silent again, took
deep drags on his cigarette. “Bet he's grown four, five inches.” He shook his
head. “Sundays are the pits.” She knew what he meant. Sunday had been Chuck's
big day. And Tray's. “We used to have lots of fun on Sundays.”