Twilight Child (36 page)

 But before
they went out the door, Peter kneeled and embraced his adopted son. Goldy came
over and, jealously asserting himself, licked Tray's face.

 “You're my
boy, right?”

 “I sure am,
Daddy.”

 “Well then,
prove it.”

 Tray pushed
Goldy away and kissed Peter noisily on the cheek. Frances watched, engulfed
suddenly by a great wave of indignation.

 “He should
not have to be going through this.”

 “No way,”
Peter said, releasing the boy.

 “If they
really wanted to do what's best for him, they'd drop the suit instead of
putting him through this.”

 “That's about
the long and short of it.”

 Outside, they
got into the car. Tray sat between them in the front seat. Suddenly she
embraced him.

 “It's not
your fault, darling,” she whispered. He looked up, confused. “And I pray and
hope we're doing the right thing by you.”

 “You're my
mommy. You always do right,” Tray said, kissing her cheek.

 She hoped it
was true, but she was no longer certain.

 CHARLIE
punched out the last cigarette in the pack, then crushed the
wrapper and flung it in the direction of the plastic waste bucket. He missed.
Story of my life, he shrugged, lifting the mug of tepid coffee. It had a sour,
metallic taste, but he swallowed a mouthful anyway.

 Through the
kitchen window, he could see the faint silhouettes of the trees. From one hung
the tire swing, looking like some ominous big-eyed predator, waiting for its
moment to spring and devour. It was not yet dawn. Beyond the trees, the sky was
coal black, glistening with the afterglow of the setting moon.

 Despite all
the valiant efforts he had made to hold back the depressing thoughts, they
still came. This thing with calling Tray to court had jolted him. What he
needed, he decided, was a mental sump pump to wash away the gloom. Why was all
this happening? Had it happened before? He forced himself to probe his memory,
focus some light on those darker corners of his life. They were there. He was
sure of it, but, somehow, he had repressed them, shut them out. Had there been
other ways to deal with them? He wasn't sure.

 A memory did
bubble to the surface. He was on Iwo Jima, pinned down in broad daylight on a
tiny stretch of beach. He had gone in on the second wave. Dead marines were
strewn along the beach like seashells. Gritty sand hung on his tongue. Sweat
poured from his body. Shells crashed around him. He could hear the whiz of the
bullets as they sailed ominously over his head. Men shouted in agony and
frustration. Yet, amid all that carnage, some mysterious collective will had
infected those who lay there, and suddenly, in the face of this relentless
incoming fire, they moved forward. He knew he could not accurately reconstruct
the thoughts of a twenty-year-old boy, but he was sure that the spirit of the
memory remained intact in his mind all those years. Only now, he was certain,
could he assess the truth of it.

 It was not a
foolhardy myth of heroism that had spurred them on. Not a mad wish for
martyrdom. Not a soldier's programmed reflex to barking orders. A mere shouted
command would not have been enough to move them into the jaws of a cruel death.
What then? Of one thing he was now certain. There was nothing in it of gloom or
depression or pessimism or doubt. He had crawled on his belly toward the enemy
guns with absolute certainty that his role as a marine and a man had logic and
meaning. Of course, he feared the potential pain and the dying. But what he
feared most of all was that he would fall short of grace and dignity in the
face ot it, that he would dishonor those values of courage, loyalty, and honor
without which he could not fulfill his role.

 What had
happened to all those old roles? Time was when you could go to sleep and get up
in the morning and everything would be the same. A father went to work and
provided for his family. A mother watched over her brood and cooked and cleaned
the hallowed nest where a man could rest his heart. Grandparents stood by,
loving and content, passing along the lessons of time and experience. The young
respected the old. The bond between the old and the young was sacred. Graying
had a hallowing effect. Passing was properly mourned. Had times changed that
much? A hand clutched and tightened around his gut. Where was the grace, the
honor, in grandparents' having to go to court to secure the right to visit
their own grandchild?

 But even the
light of memory could not reveal why he had put those shells in his rifle. He
could barely remember doing it. Had he been seeking to end it, check out of
life, put an end to frustration and pain? Leave Molly? Never! Could he have
actually done something so cowardly and unworthy? Of course not. He caught the
element of sham in his bravado. He pounded his fist into his palm. Then it came
to him. Was that it? A mystery cracked? The end of mourning?

 “That bullet
wasn't meant for me. It was meant for Nasty Jake.”

 “What?” It
was Molly behind him.

 “Nothing,” he
said, turning. “I was talking to myself, I guess.” He laughed. “We were having
a go at it. Me and him.”

 “You and
who?”

 “Me and me,”
he said. “I was trying to figure things out.”

 “Tell me when
you do.”

 “This thing
with Tray being called to court. I can't live with it.”

 “It's awful.
Just awful.”

 “Our fault?”

 She looked at
him in the quickening light, avoiding an answer. “I dozed off,” she said,
changing the subject. “But when you weren't there, I woke suddenly.” She
giggled nervously. “Did I ever tell you, Charlie, that when you and Chuck would
go away, I don't think I ever had a good night's sleep?”

 “Not once?”

 “No. I never
told you,” she mused, looking out the window. “I never told you how lonely I
felt, either.”

 “No, you
didn't.”

 He wondered
whether, as Frances had confessed, Molly, too, had felt excluded. Women were
mysterious creatures. Didn't they understand that manliness required that they
be shut out sometimes? Hadn't he tried to explain that long ago?

 “You should
have told me.”

 “Would it
have made any difference?”

 “Maybe.”

 “I doubt
that, Charlie. Besides, I always felt that I was doing the right thing by
staying home. You used to come back feeling, the two of you”—she groped for the
right word—“content. As if you shared some deep, dark masculine secret. Sure I
felt excluded. And I forgot my loneliness because I could see that you and
Chuck were happy for being away together.”

 While he
listened, he looked out the window. She did understand that, and he felt
grateful.

 “I had him a
lot to myself earlier. I had him inside me. Then at the breast. It's different
with a mother. I never felt deprived in that respect. It didn't mean that I
wasn't supposed to miss both of you when you went away. That's what Frances
meant when she said she felt abandoned. Of course, you knew that, Charlie. You
knew it.”

 He nodded.

 “The
difference was that I always knew that it was more important for you to come
home than it was to stay away,” Molly continued. “For some reason Chuck didn't
feel that way. Something inside of him was different, I guess. I don't know
why. He didn't, either. It wasn't Frances's fault, Charlie.”

 “Suppose it
was mine?” Charlie asked. “Was I too selfish about him? Too possessive? Like
Frances said?”

 “Too loving,
maybe.”

 “Whatever. It
didn't do him much good.” He continued to look out the window. The shapes
outside were becoming more distinct. “You really think that I could have kept
him from going?”

 “I used to
think so. I'm sure Frances still does.”

 “She probably
hates me for that. Hates me for a lot of things, I suppose.”

 “I don't
think Frances hates. She's just scared. Afraid of losing Peter. Afraid for
Tray.”

 “I might have
stopped him, Molly. I might have. But I felt he needed it.” Charlie felt a sob bubble
in his chest. “He didn't have his war. What's a young man's life without
adventure?”

 “Always what
a man needs. What about us?”

 “I don't know
what you women need. I don't understand the rules of your club, either.” She
sat beside him and rested her hand on her chin, reaching out with the other to
touch his hand. “But I'm always willing to learn.”

 “I think
sometimes that if Tray were a girl, Frances wouldn't feel so threatened.”

 “Then
you'd
be the heavy. She'd blame it all on you.”

 “Would it mean
as much? A girl grandchild?”

 “I think so,”
he said emphatically. “And I'd be like you and you'd be like me.”

 “You mean I'd
be the one flying off the handle, and you'd be the one trying to hold it all
together?”

 “It wouldn't
mean that we wouldn't love her with equal feeling.”

 “It would
have been great to have a little girl,” Molly sighed. She bent over and put her
arm around his neck. “It's too bad I was so barren, Charlie. You needed lots of
children. You had a lot to give.”

 “Sure I did.
But you had more. Anyway, I'm not going to look back. It's you and me, babe. No
matter what. Besides, what would you have done without your biggest baby to
worry about?”

 “So what do
you want to be when you grow up?”

 “If I grew
up, you might find some other baby.”

 “There's
nothing to worry about then. You'll never grow up.”

 She moved
closer to him, and they were silent for a long time, watching the familiar
shapes emerge in the quickening light.

 “You've got
to admit that Peter's been a good dad for the boy, a loving, caring father.
What more could you ask for?” Her voice seemed to tighten with caution. “The
fact is, Tray might not need us as much as we think we need him.”

 He stiffened,
the old anger beginning to swell inside of him.

 “What's wrong
with us needing him? With anybody needing anybody?”

 “The law
doesn't see it that way.”

 “Then the law
is not so smart.” He got up and began to pace the room. When he looked at her,
her frown told him she was once more worried about his state of mind. “What do
they know? Bringing a seven-year-old kid into the courtroom. Putting him
through that. Those lawyers may think they know something about the law, but
they don't know a damned thing about human beings.”

 Outside the
courtroom, the scene with Forte had not been pleasant. Charlie had been hopping
mad about the judge's ruling.

 “Your fault,”
he had accused the lawyer. “You went after Frances with a horsewhip.”

 “Isn't that
what you wanted?”

 “Not if it
turned out like this. You should have known what would happen.”

 “It was the
only card we had.”

 “My grandson
should not have been brought into it.”

 “He
was
in it. From the beginning.”

 “Is there
anything we can do to stop it?” Molly had asked. She was in total agreement
with Charlie.

 “We could withdraw
the petition.”

 “And never
see Tray again?”

 “You can't
have your cake and eat it, too, Mr. Waters.”

 “You did it
deliberately,” Charlie had mumbled. “Got your ego in it. Got your nose out of
joint. You knew what she would do.”

 “I hoped she
would, yes,” he said. “Look what I had to contend with. Your wife's big secret
and you with a loaded gun on your lap.”

 “She had it
all wrong.”

 “Did she?”
Suddenly the lawyer calmed down, grew pensive. “They made their point.”

 “So did you,”
Molly had said. “About her seeking to punish us.”

 “Maybe it was
true. It sure looks like it.”

 “It doesn't
matter anyway,” the lawyer said. “An acrimonious relationship between the
grandparents and custodial parents is definitely not in the best interests of
the child. I took a chance on that one.”

 “You could
have concentrated on making Peter the heavy. You made the point, but you could
have hammered away at it instead of attacking her.” Molly had tried to press
the issue, but Forte only shook his head.

 “That's what
makes a domestic trial so fascinating. You start down one path, but you never
really know where it's leading. What I had to do was shake up the issue,
confuse things, muddy the waters, ascribe deep, hostile motives. People have
all kinds of aggressive secrets. Usually they're kept under control and don't
affect the norm of behavior. So your daughter-in-law was wary of you. That was
obvious from the beginning. I just built on it. Most people are secretly wary
of each other, somewhat less than trusting, thinking that someone is trying to
invade their turf. I've seen such manifestations even in what seemed like
loving relationships. People, in the end, are individuals. Once they're born,
they're on their own.”

 “All right
then,” Charlie had asked. “Tray gets into the picture. Now give me the bottom
line. Will it be worth the candle?”

 “Toss a
coin.” When no response came, Forte continued. “The good news is that I think
the judge is so damned confused she had no other alternative than to call in
the boy. The bad news is that the law is really on the side of your
daughter-in-law and her husband. But you knew that from the beginning. She
wants to satisfy her conscience, to make sure the kid is what they say he is.
Happy. Adjusted. Actually, he's probably just that. But maybe he'll set
something off in her. Who knows?”

 “The law
stinks,” Charlie had said, before turning away and walking toward their car.

 Sitting down
again, Charlie felt in his robe for cigarettes.

 “Damn,” he
said, when he found none.

 “That's not
good for you,” Molly said gently.

 “What is good
for me?”

 “I am, and I
want you around for a while.” Again, she embraced him. “I need you for my old
age.”

 “Looks like
that's all we're gonna have.”

 “Each other.
Is that so bad?”

 Thoughts of losing
Molly always chilled his bones. That would end it all for him. He shivered,
chasing the idea.

 “You and me,
babe.”

 “Everybody
needs everybody.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Why can't people just be nice?
Why can't I just love my grandson?” He lifted a palm. “Our grandson.” He felt
as if something was thrashing around inside of him. “Loving is a two-way
street. No sense loving anything from long distance. Loving means being
together. Doesn't it?”