Chapter 33 #2
“Father’s estate is completely unmanageable. The house has eight bedrooms, he refuses to install a chair lift or restrict himself to the main floor, when he easily could. And the lawn, the gardens. Ridiculous. Of course, as a former doctor himself, Mattathias Curtis Campbell—”
“Mattathias?”
“Yes. Mattathias—daunting name, isn’t it?—has little interest in knowing what his son thinks about progressive dementia and the fact that he’s taken more falls in the last month than in the last three years.”
Curtis filled me in on the all-too-familiar pattern. No siblings; a father who had become difficult with nurses and housekeepers.
“For a while I felt good helping Dad get through this next stage of his life, and I was particularly grateful he was well enough to avoid a nursing home. But now I just worry all the time. We fight. He’s gotten mean, in a way he never was before.
Petty. Selfish. I know it’s just his brain changing. I don’t want to admit it . . .”
He trailed off. The waitress brought a new carafe of Chianti to the table.
I hadn’t noticed that we’d emptied the first one.
“But here, let’s toast to friendship. I know you understand exactly what I’m going through.
” We clinked, and then I let him talk me into staying for a late lunch to soak up the wine we were both drinking at reckless speed.
The oilcloth table covering was sticky. The breadsticks were doughy.
The spaghetti sauce was too salty. And still, I was glad we’d picked Ray’s, because it was the only down-to-earth restaurant in town.
Robert and I had eaten here many times, and from the dark booth Curtis and I had chosen, I could see across the mostly empty dining room to the two green padded barstools where Robert and I usually sat.
He and I came for sports games—Bulls, Bears, Cubs, Blackhawks.
No need for deep conversation when there was a goal, foul, or penalty to discuss.
With Curtis, by contrast, it felt like I was spending time with a grown-up. No games or distractions required.
“Only a half glass,” I said, when he started to refill mine again. “Ladies’ room. ’Scuse me.”
I didn’t realize how tipsy I was until I stood up and wobbled through the maze of empty tables between our secluded alcove and the restrooms. In the bathroom, where I texted Benjamin, telling him not to expect me for a while, I came close to dropping my phone in the toilet.
At the sink, I splashed too much, spraying droplets on my blouse.
I patted it dry with a paper towel. Then I peeked between the top buttons to check which bra I was wearing. A light pink one. Not too embarrassing. Relatively new. No stretched-out straps or safety pins.
You’re thinking of sleeping with him.
I shook my head, balled up the paper towel and tossed it into the garbage. Then I smoothed the back of the skirt, feeling for the high-cut panties that matched the bra. Also newish.
But you want to!
It had been years since I’d heard that drunken inner voice, laughing at me, but also daring me.
On the way back to the dining room, I passed the loud bar and did a double take. A man seated at the farthest padded barstool looked like Robert from behind. The same wide back and sloping shoulders. I stopped staring when two men stood up to cheer for a home run, blocking my view.
Back at the table, Curtis asked, “You all right?”
“Maybe I could use a coffee.”
When the waitress brought it, I poured in three sugars, then squinted toward the bar section again. Curtis made his own restroom visit and on return, slid into the booth next to me, the sides of our thighs touching.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For not leaving once you realized I was falling down a rabbit-hole of self-pity. I haven’t talked about my father to anyone else.” He drained his wine glass and clapped his hand over mine, pinning it to the tabletop. “A better son would be at his side now.”
“You need to leave town. You should, and you will.”
“On top of that . . . you and I.” He hesitated. “I shouldn’t have treated you as a patient—not even once.”
He pushed his hair back, leaving a few dark, scruffy pieces standing.
He’d stuffed his tie into his jacket pocket and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, revealing a neck flushed red from sun or drink.
I felt a twinge of guilt for liking him in this disheveled and vulnerable state, not that I wanted to see him in despair.
His hand remained cupped over mine. “You knew I was interested that day at the pool. I may run the occasional yellow light, but in every other way, I’m a rule follower. And you and I both know what the rules say.”
“Yes, we do,” I said, waiting for him to say the next part. Rules are meant to be broken.
Curtis squeezed my hand. “The man who took care of Dad’s lawn quit.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised by the change of subject. “Is that a big problem?”
“Dad gets upset when I try to help. If I had a young man with me, it would be different. Dad would see it as giving that young person a sense of direction. He’d go along.”
I wanted to get back to our previous unfinished conversation.
“If you’re saying that Benjamin could ease your stress by mowing a lawn, then yes.”
“Good,” he said, releasing my hand in order to slap the table once, triumphantly.
He turned in the booth, eyes on mine.
“I have a serious proposition, Abby. I’d like to take Benjamin to Wisconsin. Bring him up to the family house. Time for some therapeutic guidance, but mostly it would be role modeling. Work, good habits, the right amount of structure.”
I pushed into the far side of the booth to get a little more distance and half turned, just as he had. Now, the booth felt too small, our knees jostling for space.
“You’re thinking . . . a weekend?”
“I was thinking about the rest of the summer.”
Our waitress appeared, clearing the half-finished spaghetti plates. “More drinks? Room for dessert?”
I slid my credit card into her hand before Curtis could reach for his wallet.
“Just the bill,” I said firmly, waiting for her to leave before speaking again.
Before, he’d wanted a special day out with Benjamin. Now he was pressing for several weeks.
“Thank you, Curtis. Really. But there are still things I need to discuss with Benjamin. Things I’m hoping he’ll tell me. And I know that takes time. The kind of time you get with a teen when you’re not in a rush or trying too hard. Cooking, driving, just sitting around. You know?”
When Curtis didn’t reply, I continued. “As for habits and structure, he’s got that. He doesn’t sleep all day. If it’s too late for him to get the lifeguard job, I’ll help him find something else.”
Curtis’s mouth was pinched. He seemed not to realize that his right knee was pressing into my thigh.
I said, “I guess I should be getting home.”
“Of course. I’ll drive you.”
“Actually, considering all the wine . . .” I pulled out my phone, swiping in search of a rideshare icon.
“I’ll drive you,” he said again.
“Or I could walk.”
I set my phone aside, took another sip of my coffee, and looked at his, barely touched.
Noticing my glance, he said, “I didn’t have as much wine as you had. And I weigh twice as much as you do, even after losing all that weight.” He tapped his flat belly. “You never asked me how I slimmed down, by the way.”
“Ozempic?”
“Loneliness.”
The divorce. His daughter, far away. “Oh, Curtis.”
He took a long sip of coffee, then smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That wasn’t a bid for sympathy!”
I felt embarrassed for him now. For myself, too. I should have understood. He wasn’t maximizing time with Benjamin only for my son’s sake. He was trying to fulfill a fatherly role. His daughter—the very same age as Benjamin, he’d told us at the pool. The same birth month, even.
“You’ve been good for Benjamin,” I said. “But . . .”
“But?”
“I’m his mother. He’s going through a difficult time. I need to be there for him.”
“Even if he doubts your love right now.”
“Especially if he doubts it.”
“And even if he’s at a critical crossroads.”
“Yes.”
“And even if your family history doesn’t generate much confidence in reversing a certain pattern . . . ?”
“A certain pattern,” I said, frowning, wanting him to explain further. “I know you believe that boys need male role models.”
He mumbled, “It’s not only that.”
I kept trying to make eye contact with Curtis, but he refused to look at me now. When he took out his phone, I assumed he was taking my advice and calling a car. But then I heard the whoosh of an email being sent.
He slid his phone back into his jacket. “We used group therapy at Menkoka for a while, but it backfired. The problem with housing and treating psychopaths together is that instead of getting better together, they get worse. They study each other. Learn from each other. How to deceive, manipulate, don useful masks—all while finding reassurance in each other’s company.
‘That person got away with such and such moral violation; so could I.’”
Half an hour ago, he’d been venting about his father. Two minutes ago, he was pressing his warm thigh into mine.
“If you’re suggesting I’m a bad influence on my son, that’s ridiculous.”
“I’m only suggesting that it’s very important whom Benjamin spends time with right now.”
“My son isn’t one of Konrad’s ducklings,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension, expecting him to laugh at a psychology reference.
Curtis slid out of the booth. “I just sent you the transcript from our hypnosis session. I didn’t think you should read it before, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Okay,” I said, perplexed by his insistence. “Fine.”
I nodded and looked around, disoriented, following him halfway across the dining room before realizing I’d left my purse under the table.
I’d just hooked a finger under the strap when a commotion erupted in the bar section of the restaurant, competing with the noise of the televisions.
Curtis’s firm diction was drowned out by an even louder, familiar voice, braying with indignation.
Standing up fast, I banged the top of my head on the underside of the table. I closed my eyes for a second—men—and then hurried to break things up before someone did something stupid.