Chapter 32
That evening, after my family left, I told Leonard about his parents’ divorce. For a moment, I saw his bewilderment. Then his eyes hardened, and he shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’ve got nothing to do with us.”
I wasn’t sure about this. I’d long wondered if some part of him wanted to open his mother’s letters, but felt he couldn’t because of me. He had reason to be angry on his own behalf. I knew that. But Leonard was even more loyal than Mae. I didn’t want him to think he had to choose.
“It was your mother who filed.”
He gave me a sharp look. “So?”
Phoenix rested his chin on the sliver of cushion between us. Leonard scratched the white star between his ears, and I rubbed under his collar.
“You think it was because of us?” I asked. “You think she divorced him because of what happened?”
“Does it matter? They’re both terrible. They both did it.”
I couldn’t argue. And yet only his mother had written. Only his mother kept writing.
“I hope you’re not shutting her out for me,” I said. “On my account, I mean.”
“It’s on our account.” I could see I’d upset him. The one eyebrow shot up. “What? You want to have her out for Christmas? Because she wrote a few times? Forgive and forget?”
Honestly, I was relieved. If Leonard had said that he missed his mother, and wanted her in our lives, I’m not sure what I would have done.
I wanted to think I could call upon my higher self, out of love for him, but I didn’t want to be in the same room as that woman.
I had my own loyalties—to Leonard, to our daughter.
And to the broken, believing girl I’d been.
Two weeks later, I came home from the library and found, in our postbox, a white, business-size envelope with a return address for Lieutenant R.
Chesnow. That Bobby had used his military rank, along with just the first initial of his formal name, seemed a bad sign.
I stood alone in our building’s little foyer, holding the envelope between my finger and thumb, scared to open it.
It seemed likely that either Janet or Mae, when they’d seen Bobby, had repeated what I’d said about him judging me.
Perhaps Bobby felt the need to defend his judgment.
Perhaps he’d written to tell me what a wonderful time they’d all had together in Tijuana without me.
Perhaps he’d heard that I’d upset my father, and he wrote to scold me for it.
The envelope felt light, almost weightless, but any of those heavy things could be inside it.
Of course, those guesses were all just attempts to push down the hope rising inside me. Part of me still believed hope, if proved foolish, would only make the hurt worse. I’m no longer sure that’s true.
—
My brother, when he first walked into our apartment, did pause to embrace me, but like the rest of my family, he seemed most excited to see the dog. “They put some weight on you, good boy?” he asked, crouching in front of Phoenix. “You still eating fries?”
These were almost the exact same questions my father had asked of him a few weeks earlier.
I was struck by this, especially because Bobby’s voice, which had grown deeper since I’d last heard it, sounded so much like our father’s.
When he stood again, and we had a chance to truly take each other in, I could see that although his face had lost some plumpness, his smile was still like our mother’s.
He wore denim jeans and a plaid shirt, but his hair was regulation short.
“Leonard won’t be home until two,” I said. “We should go ahead and have lunch. I made you something really special.”
I think because we hadn’t seen each other in so long, Bobby took me at my word, and thanked me with sincerity. But in the kitchen, when I presented him with a serving of mac and cheese mixed with hot dog slices, he knew he could laugh, and did.
“The good old days return!” he said. It turned out that as a grown man, he was still happy to dig into that particular dish.
I asked if he had a picture of himself in uniform, and he seemed proud to take one from his wallet to show me.
He asked me about living in Los Angeles, and if I liked my job.
He complimented our kitchen clock, which was a miniature grandfather clock, small enough to hang on the wall.
“Thanks,” I said. “I found it at a thrift store. I have to remember to wind it every week, or it runs a little late. Like me.”
He laughed again. He told me he loved California, and hoped he wouldn’t be transferred anytime soon, though he said that it felt strange to live so far away from family.
I agreed. For a while after that, there was only the clicking pendulum of the clock, for we both knew he and I had lived in the same state, just a few hours away from each other, for years.
“How was Tijuana?” I asked.
He told me they’d had a good time, and he enjoyed showing them around base. He got a real kick out of Skip, and he couldn’t believe how much Shirley had grown. “Not to mention Janet. Already in high school.” He paused. “She and I spent some time talking.”
I sipped my soda, readying myself. In his letter, he’d only written that he’d like to drive up to see me. He’d signed this letter Love, Bobby, but I was still uneasy. I mean, my father still wrote Love, Dad on Christmas and birthday cards. The word holds different meanings.
Before Bobby spoke again, he took a deep breath.
I could see he was nervous. I thought of the year we’d moved to St. Pete, how determined he’d been to jump off the high dive.
He’d been so scared, I remembered, and younger than anyone else in line.
I could tell that once he got up on the board, he wanted to turn around and go back down the ladder.
But he didn’t. He tucked his chin and jumped.
“I didn’t know you had a baby,” he said. “I knew it was something. I knew something had happened. But I didn’t know it was that. Not until Janet told me.”
I shut my eyes, listening to the click click click of the clock’s swinging pendulum.
I didn’t want to feel the regret that was coming, rolling toward me like a wave.
I’d been so sure. I’d never once doubted.
I thought of that day I’d seen Leonard in the Publix, all the hateful things I’d said. I hadn’t learned a thing.
“I knew you weren’t in Arkansas with Mae’s mother.
” His voice wavered. “I believed it at first. I mean, that’s what Mae said, that’s what Dad said.
But your letters were strange. You didn’t sound like you.
I didn’t understand why everyone was lying, why you were lying.
You never lied. I thought maybe you were sick, and no one wanted to tell me. I worried that…I worried…”
I opened my eyes to see him squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers. Growing up, everyone had thought of Bobby as ornery. And he was. But I’d known of the softness, the hurt underneath.
“Oh, Bobby.” I tried to take his hand, but he shook his head.
“I was scared you would die, too.”
I put my arm on the table, resting my forehead on it. I’d tried talking to him when he was mowing the lawn. But I hadn’t really tried. He’d been fifteen. He was nine when our mother died.
“Then you came back, and I thought maybe you would tell me what was going on. But you were still lying. And you weren’t the same.
Next thing I know, you’re with Russ, and completely different, not at all like you were.
And I was mad about it. Sad about it. Mae and Dad were busy with Shirley, Janet was around, but that wasn’t the same. We’d always been together, you and me.”
I raised my head. “I thought you heard,” I said. “You got in that fight, at the pool.”
“I just knew they were saying things about you. I heard your name, and picked up on the tone. I knew it wasn’t anything good. I didn’t like that they knew more than I did. Guess I was thick in the head, but I didn’t know.”
I let the regret hit me, full force. How confusing that time must have been for him.
How lonely. The day he and my father and Janet picked me up at the station, he’d looked gangly in his usher’s uniform.
He’d snapped at me for forgetting he’d already written that he had a job at the theater.
I hadn’t thought of what I might mean to him, or the place I’d held in his world.
“Mae told me not to tell you,” I said. “She told me I couldn’t.” It didn’t feel right, blaming Mae. She’d meant well. She’d just been wrong.
“You could have,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
We sat there with nothing to say for a while. And then that good man, my brother, glanced at the clock, which hadn’t yet struck one.
“You could tell me now,” he said. “If you want.”