Hope Street Part 36

"Yeah-taking turns feeding me. Is Mike scheduled for tomorrow morning?"

"Mike." Danny snorted. "He's p.i.s.sed. I told him to stay away from you."

That brought Bobby up short. He lowered his fork. "Why?"

"Because of the whole Claudia thing. He doesn't want to forgive you for not telling us the truth."

"You do want to forgive me?"

Danny shrugged. Along with his adolescent appet.i.te, he still had a lanky adolescent build. Working for DiFranco had added some heft to his torso, however. His chest and shoulders filled his T-s.h.i.+rt well. The front of the s.h.i.+rt featured a picture of a rock band Bobby had never heard of. "I figure, what the heck," he said. "Claudia's my sister. End of story."

"You don't mind that your mother and I lied to you?"

"People lie. They have their reasons." He rummaged through the food containers, apparently contemplating what to eat next.

Danny had apparently made his peace with Bobby and Joelle's decision not to tell anyone about Claudia's origins. Why couldn't Mike? Was it simply that Danny was a mellower guy, or happier because he was in love? And where did Claudia fit on the scale? She'd agreed to have her blood tested, but she seemed agitated about the whole thing.

Beyond the kids, what about him? What about Joelle? What would they do if Claudia wound up being a genetic match for Foster's son?

Would they even still be married by then?

"So, when do you think Mom'll be coming home?" Danny asked after was.h.i.+ng a dim-sum dumpling down with as wig of beer.

"I don't know. She won't talk to me."

"Man, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing," Bobby said, then pressed his lips together and stared at the thick brown sauce spread like an oil slick across the surface of his plate. He'd done something. Saying he'd done nothing was just another lie.

He and Joelle had survived worse, hadn't they? They'd survived his return home from Vietnam, his nightmares, his long, arduous months of rehab. They'd survived years of scrimping, years when the only vacation they could afford was a day at an amus.e.m.e.nt park with the kids, when their idea of a new car was anything less than ten years old.

"Maybe you ought to go out to Ohio," Danny said as he scooped a pile of beef and broccoli onto his plate. "Sit down with her and talk things out."

"I just told you-she won't talk to me," Bobby said.

"Maybe you ought to get in her face. Then she'd have no choice but to talk to you."

Bobby regarded Danny. Danny tended to be more impulsive than Mike or Claudia. He thought a thing and then he did it. Get in her face, he'd said. Go out to Ohio.

Bobby wasn't one for dramatic gestures, and he'd never chased after a woman who didn't want him. But this wasn't just a woman. This was JoJo. His wife.

The woman who'd betrayed him. The woman who'd taken his daughter away from him.

The woman he'd adored since he was ten years old.

He couldn't fix this mess alone. He wasn't sure he and Joelle could fix it together. But a part, they would never make things right.

"I wonder how soon I could get to Ohio," he said.

JOELLE'S CHILDHOOD BED WAS A lot less comfortable than her bed at home in Gray Hill. It was even less comfortable than the hard king-size bed in the room at the West Side Motor Lodge, where she'd stayed her first night in Holmdell. Yet after checking out of the motel and moving into her old bedroom at the rear of the first-floor flat on Third Street, Joelle slept as if someone had clubbed her over the head, a thick, black sleep without dreams.

The small room overlooking the backyard was warm and stuffy. Her mother had never installed an air conditioner in that room, and she left the door shut most of the time so the air-conditioning gusting through the rest of the apartment wouldn't be wasted in a room she rarely used. She'd set up her sewing machine on Joelle's desk, and an ironing board along the far wall. A pile of fabric squares in a basket next to the sewing machine indicated that she was working on a quilt. Joelle could sew it while she was in town, but it was her mother's project, so she left the fabric and the machine alone.

She used to sew a lot when the kids were younger. They were always outgrowing things, always in need of a new s.h.i.+rt or dress. Ratty old furniture had to be spruced up with new slipcovers and pillows. But lately she'd been neglecting her sewing. When she went home, she'd start a new project.

When she went home. Once she decided it was time to return to the house in Gray Hill. Once she knew whether the mistakes she'd made were reparable, whether her children would forgive her, whether her husband would ever, ever open his heart fully to her.

Until she was ready to face everything that awaited her in Connecticut, the cramped back bedroom on Third Street would do, even without air-conditioning. The scuffed chest of drawers that used to hold all her clothing now contained stationery supplies, old magazines and odds and ends, but the bottom drawer was empty, enabling her to unpack her suitcase. The closet was empty, too-except for her high-school prom dress, still hanging from the rod, draped in clear, protective plastic. As if she'd ever wear the thing again. Just touching the synthetic fabric made her skin itch.

The pillow on her bed smelled musty, but the sheets were cool. She'd opened the window to let in the night air and asked her mother to let her sleep late. She hadn't slept well for so many nights. Maybe a night alone, without Bobby lying right beside her yet light-years away from her, would allow her to get some rest.

It did. In her thin T-s.h.i.+rt, with the blanket kicked to the foot of the bed, she lay un moving in the heat. She might have slept straight through Sunday if she hadn't heard a tapping at the window.

She opened one eye and found the room hazy with a gray light seeping through the voile curtains. Then she heard the tapping again, and a whisper: "JoJo?"

She bolted upright, blinking furiously. Once her eyes were in focus, she saw the familiar silhouette against the floating curtains. Inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, she swung out of bed, crossed to the window and spread the curtains apart.

There stood Bobby, just as he had when they'd been children, when he'd sneaked over to visit her late at night and hadn't dared to ring the front doorbell. She stared at him through the screen, his face shadowed, his shoulders broad and strong. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Danny said I should get in your face," he told her.

Her brain moved sluggishly, still woozy with drowsiness. She blinked again, took more deep breaths, shook her head to clear it. "I mean here, at the window."

"No one answered the front door."

"What time is it?"

He lifted his wrist. "Almost eleven."

Her mother must have gone out. Maybe she'd met Stan Sherko at the Bank Street Diner for brunch. Just friends, indeed.

Unsure what to do, Joelle decided to concentrate on facts and chronologies. "How did you get here? You were still in Connecticut last night. You phoned."

"And you had your mother run interference." He sounded annoyed when he said that, but his tone grew more conversational when he explained, "I hitched a ride to Cincinnati on a FedEx plane."

"What?"

"Danny's girlfriend, Lauren-her father is an attorney for some big shot at FedEx. Danny talked to Lauren, and she made a few calls and got me a seat on one of their overnight flights. Me and a bunch of fruit crates and sandals from L. L. Bean. I like that girl." She saw the outline of his cheeks move and realized he must have smiled. "I rented a car at the airport."

"You must be exhausted."

Although she couldn't see his eyes, she felt his gaze. "You look a lot more tired than I feel."

"Bobby..." She sighed. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk to you yet."

"Too bad. I'm in your face."

She smiled, imagining Danny giving him in-your-face coaching.

"So, are you coming out or am I coming in?"

"I'm not climbing over the windowsill," she said. "I'm too old. Go around to the front door. I'll let you in."

She turned from the window, wondering whether she should get dressed before she let Bobby inside the apartment. Why bother? He hadn't touched her in days. The last time he had, it had felt more like fear than love. No way would he interpret her sleep apparel as seductive.

She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and yanked the k.n.o.b on the bedroom door. The heat had made the wood swell, and the door stuck for a moment before opening. Willing herself to full alertness, she strode barefoot down the hall to the front door.

Bobby stepped inside, closed the door behind him and stared at her. He had on a pair of old jeans worn to flannel softness and a plain navy-blue T-s.h.i.+rt that hinted at the lean strength of his body. She ached to bury her face against his chest, to feel his arms tight around her. But he didn't reach for her, and she kept her distance.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes."

"It was a long drive for you, all alone."

She shrugged. "Would you like some coffee? Something to eat?"

"Why is everyone trying to feed me? You all think I don't know how to feed myself?"

Irked by his response-by his presence-she pivoted on her heel and stalked into the kitchen. Bobby might not want coffee, but she did.

He followed her into the kitchen and opened the blinds while she prepared a pot of coffee. "What have you been doing here?" he asked.

By here, she knew he meant Holmdell. She wasn't sure she should say anything when she was still not completely awake, but having Bobby talk to her, pepper her with questions, attempt a conversation, was a treat after the past week. She ought to encourage him. "I've been retracing my steps," she told him.

"What do you mean?"

"Figuring out how I wound up where I did."

"Have you figured it out?"

"I don't know." The coffeemaker churned. She pulled two cups and saucers from the drying rack and set them on the table. Typical Bobby: he wanted her to give him a simple answer. He wanted her to say yes, she'd figured it out, so he wouldn't have to offer anything of himself. In fact, she had figured it out, at least some of it. She'd figured out that for the past thirty-seven years she'd been married to a loyal, reliable, generous man who couldn't face the demons inside himself, who couldn't face the even greater goodness there, who couldn't love her the way she'd always dreamed of being loved. But how could she tell him that?

The coffee finished brewing, and she lifted the decanter from the machine. "I'll go to a marriage counselor with you," he said, startling her so much she nearly dropped the pot.

She steadied herself before carrying the pot to the table and filling the cups. "You will?"

"I can't stand the idea, Jo, but if it'll make you happy, I'll do it."

"I don't know how successful counseling would be if you went into it saying, 'I can't stand the idea.'"

He snorted. "Sitting in an office and baring my soul to a stranger? I don't do that kind of thing."

You don't bare your soul to anyone, she thought, returning the pot to the counter.

"I don't even know what we'd talk about," he added.

"We'd talk about why..." Her voice started to crack, and she took a sip of coffee to cover the sound. "We'd talk about why you can't talk about anything. About why when you're angry or afraid, you won't talk to me. You lock everything up inside yourself and pretend it doesn't exist."

He ignored his coffee, his attention fully on her, his eyes as intense as lasers. "Sometimes that's a pretty smart strategy."

"But the truth doesn't always stay locked up. It escapes."

"Yeah." He looked past her and drank some coffee. "Why don't you get dressed and go downtown with me. I can drop off the rental car at the bus station. No sense having two cars here."

He was shutting down again. Despair whispered in her heart, but she refused to listen to it. He was here. He'd traveled all the way to Cincinnati on a FedEx cargo plane. Maybe that was as close as he'd ever get to telling her he loved her.

Abandoning him to the steaming coffeepot and whatever edibles he might scrounge-there were probably some more stale Danish stashed somewhere-she detoured to her bedroom to grab a robe, then headed for the bathroom to shower. She didn't need to wear a robe around him. He was her husband; he'd seen her naked plenty of times. But she still felt a barrier between them, like the spring-pressured gates he'd bought to block off the stairways when the boys were toddlers. The gates wedged between the walls at the top or bottom of a flight of stairs, or in a doorway and tension held them in place.

Tension was holding a barricade in place between her and Bobby, too.

She showered, brushed her teeth and returned to the bedroom to dress. Her mouth tingled with mint. She wondered whether Bobby would kiss her. He'd traveled all this way-in a cargo plane-but he hadn't even touched her.

Dressed in shorts and a polo s.h.i.+rt, her hair brushed and sandals buckled onto her feet, she emerged from the bedroom. She found Bobby where she'd left him-in the kitchen, staring out the window above the sink. All he could see from there was the duplex next door. The buildings along Third Street were separated from one another only by alleys no wider than a car. When Joelle was about ten, a fat woman with poodle-curly hair lived in the neighboring building, and she liked to stack Andy Williams and Dean Martin alb.u.ms on her hi-fi and waltz around her flat. Joelle used to spy on her, half amused and half transfixed by the way the woman danced, as graceful as a ballerina despite her size. She'd moved away a couple of years later and a family with a bunch of bratty children who were always screeching moved in. In the summer, when people kept their windows open because no one in those days had air-conditioning, the children's constant whining and bickering became an excruciating sound track to Joelle's dinners.

Now everyone had air-conditioning units and all the windows were closed.

Bobby gave her a tenuous smile and led her out of the building into the overcast morning. His car was a nondescript dark green sedan. Before folding himself behind the wheel, he reminded her that the car-rental drop-off was at the bus station. She nodded, climbed into her Prius and followed him down the street.

Once he dropped off his car, she'd have to drive him places, or else he'd appropriate her car to drive himself around. Maybe it would have been better for him to keep the rental.

Except that he'd journeyed to Holmdell to get in her face, and she had to admit she wanted him there. Maybe he was ready to start talking, really talking. In any case, that he'd go to such an effort to be with her had to mean he wasn't ready to give up on their marriage.

The bus station's parking lot was full, every s.p.a.ce occupied and a huge Greyhound bus occupying most of the curb. Bobby double-parked and approached her car. She pushed the b.u.t.ton to open her window. "I'll park in the lot behind the bank," she said. It was less than a block away.

Nodding, Bobby slapped the roof of her car and then strode into the terminal.

Since it was Sunday, the bank was closed, but several cars were parked in the lot. Parking on the downtown streets was metered, so people often left their cars in the lots behind the stores and office buildings. Joelle eased into a s.p.a.ce between a Dodge Ram and a glossy Mercedes sedan. Sw.a.n.ky car, she thought as she climbed out of the Prius, careful not to let her door b.u.mp the Mercedes. No doubt it belonged to someone from the Hill.

By the time she'd walked back to the bus station, Bobby had completed his task. She observed him as he swung out of the terminal. Although their marriage was in shambles, he walked with a confidence that dazzled her. He'd had that long-legged, sure-footed stride for as long as she'd known him. Even during the year he'd been on crutches, undergoing rehab on his left leg, he'd hobbled with a certainty and determination that announced to the world that he knew where he was going.

"Hi," he said, meeting up with her at the parking lot's entrance. The gray sky washed his face with wan light.

"Is there anything you need to do downtown?" she asked.

"No." He gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable.

"Well, what should we do? We're not going to find a marriage counselor on a Sunday morning."

He laughed, a welcome sound above the rumble of the bus's idling engine and the whisk of cars cruising down the street. "Downtown didn't use to be so busy on a Sunday," he said, observing the traffic. "Everyone used to be in church."

"Or sleeping late. And all the stores used to be closed. I guess they did away with the blue laws. Lots of stores are open today."

"Holmdell meets the twenty-first century." He shrugged and started toward the bank. "Let's get some lunch. It's too late for breakfast."

She wasn't particularly hungry, but she supposed he was, after his overnight flight on the cargo plane. They couldn't go to the Bank Street Diner, though. Her mother might be there, and if she was, she'd meddle.

As Joelle and Bobby entered the parking lot behind the bank, she spotted a woman ahead of them, approaching the Mercedes. The woman had silver hair as smooth and s.h.i.+ny as a mirror, and she wore white slacks and a sleeveless cotton blouse. Her hair placed her well past middle age, but her tan and freckled arms were firm and muscular, as if she swam or played a lot of tennis.