My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

29.

Swamped with work throughout the following week, Audrey squeezes in the therapy dog appointment with me, but she has no time for the daily beach walks. “Poor Petey. I’m lucky Nathan can walk him most days, but it’s not easy for him either,” she says during my second week of therapy rounds with her and the dog.

“Still no news about the reorganization?”

Audrey groans. “I wish they’d get it over with. I should find out more after the next two rounds of meetings.”

Ordinarily she devotes weekends to Nathan, but on Saturday morning she texts and asks if I’m free to join her for breakfast and to walk Petey on the esplanade afterward. Audrey picks me up and we share an order of blueberry pancakes with our coffee on the dog-friendly patio, where Petey is content to stretch out next to Audrey and people-watch. “Nathan and I had a big fight last night. Huge,” she says.

“What about?”

“The usual. He wants to move the relationship ahead, and I’m not ready.”

“Did you ask him to be patient?”

“I did.” She shrugs. “But I dunno. Last night was . . . different. Usually Nathan acts sad when we have these talks, but this time, he was frustrated with me. Super pissed, in fact.”

“Any more news on your job?”

“No, but it’s getting close. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes a big pharmaceutical company to move ahead on anything.”

“I guess I’m lucky to work for a small firm where one guy makes all the decisions.”

“Yeah, if they’re good decisions,” Audrey says as a sigh escapes. “I keep thinking Nathan might’ve waited till after my meetings to bring this up. He knows I’m on pins and needles.”

“The stress must be taking a toll on him too.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she says.

As we’re driving to the beach after breakfast, I receive a text from the bicycle shop. “Michael’s bike is ready. Oh jeez.”

“Why oh jeez?”

“I was excited about bringing Michael his old bike. But now that the time has come, I think I’m getting cold feet.”

Audrey gives me a stern look. “What are you scared of?”

“Uh . . . everything?”

Her expression grows sterner. “Margaret. You need to face your damn family.”

“I know, but I also need to prepare for this.”

“You already told me you’ve been rehearsing what you’ll say to Michael.”

“Right, but I’m not sure I’ve rehearsed enough yet.”

“You’re not starring in a Broadway musical. You’re just gonna have a talk with your son.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll bring him the bike,” I say, eager to end the conversation.

“When?”

“Soon. Maybe tomorrow. Or . . . soon.”

Audrey shakes her head at me. “I’ve got a better idea,” she says. “Why don’t you bring him the bike now? We can pick it up and I’ll drive you over. No time like the present.” Audrey drives a company car, a large SUV with plenty of room for her cartons of pharmaceutical samples. Right now, the back is empty, and it would be a breeze to throw the bicycle in. I recall how I struggled to cram the bike into my Prius when I collected it from Nancy’s place.

“What about our walk?” I say.

“I’ll walk Petey in the neighborhood while you two talk. You can text me when you’re done. No hurry. You know Petey . . . he’ll walk all day if we give him the chance.” Audrey sees my reluctance and adds, “You could text Michael first and make sure it’s okay to drop by.”

But she’s already won me over. Saturday is Michael’s day to putter around the house and yard, so he’s almost certain to be home. If I text him for permission, he may respond with some excuse, which will only cause me to lose my nerve again. The element of surprise might be exactly the right strategy. Then I remind myself, this is the delivery of a bicycle, not the invasion of Normandy. “Never mind the text. Let’s just do it,” I say.

I direct her to the bike shop, and twenty minutes later, red bicycle in tow, we pull up to the curb in front of Michael’s place. I don’t see his car, but it might still be in the garage. Audrey and I agree to monitor our cellphones. “If you haven’t heard from me in half an hour, it’s okay to text or call me,” I say. “I left the ringer on with the volume up. Make sure yours is the same way, in case I need to make a quick getaway.”

“Will do,” she says. She strides off with an enthusiastic Petey, who is surely excited at the prospect of peeing on new hydrants and sniffing undiscovered lawns.

I wheel the bike down the sidewalk, engage the kickstand to park it near the front entrance, and ring the doorbell. Heather cracks the door open in a hesitant manner, a puzzled look in her eyes.

“Surprise!” I shout, pushing the door wide open.

“Aren’t we supposed to say that?” says a tall, jowly man. It’s Steve Schuyler, Henry’s older brother.

I encounter a sea of faces – maybe a couple of dozen, to put a more accurate number on it. About half of them I recognize as family, friends, or long-time Schuyler employees. The other half are unfamiliar to me. Friends of Alice’s, perhaps? And—oh yes—Alice herself is there too, in a multi-colored broom skirt and peasant blouse that are holdovers from a distant era. If a photographer wanted to capture the many faces of perplexity and discomfiture, he would find the perfect shot right now, right here, in this room.

Heather starts talking so fast I can barely follow her. “Margaret. Gee, this is unexpected. I thought you were Michael arriving with Henry. They’re due here any minute now—for the surprise.”

Shit. Now I understand what’s going on. I’ve totally forgotten that it’s Henry’s birthday this weekend. He’s turning fifty, and from all appearances, Heather has arranged a surprise brunch at their home. I suppose Michael has been tasked with luring his father to the house on some pretext. No doubt Alice has been cooking for days in preparation. I’m guessing she’s even baked a cake in the shape of a fricking golf club.

Gazing across the room, I see that I’m right. A chocolate golf club birthday cake, adorned with rainbow-colored candles, is displayed on a small round table in the middle of the room. Next to it is a big vanilla-iced golf ball, a considerate alternative for the non-chocolate-eating guests.

“Oh, Heather, I think I picked the wrong time to make a delivery,” I say. “Maybe I should come back another day.”

But it’s too late. Michael and Henry are coming up the front sidewalk and staring, mystified, at the red bike. At first, they don’t understand what’s happening, and who can blame them?

“Mom? What’s going on?” Michael says.

“You found a red bike like the one Michael used to have – and brought it here on my birthday? Margaret, why would you do that?” says Henry.

Their voices are raised in annoyance and disbelief. They think this is a deliberate attempt to sabotage Henry’s surprise party – which he doesn’t seem all that surprised about, I’m noticing. (I will later learn that Benny blew the secret earlier that day, announcing to his grandfather that “Nana Alice roasted a chocolate golf club for your party.”) No, as it turns out, the big surprise of the hour is me. Me and the mysterious bicycle, which they believe to be an impostor.

Eager to save the day, the ever-conciliatory Alice opens her arms towards Henry, Michael, and me in a sweeping gesture and says, “Why don’t you come inside and celebrate Henry’s birthday? Let’s all be happy together on this special day.”

But Heather steps between Alice and the three of us, addressing Henry’s girlfriend in a cordial but firm tone. “Alice—these three have something to discuss, and they need to do it in private.”

“Oh, but, what about the party—”

“The party will take care of itself,” says Heather. “We’ve got appetizers and big pitchers of bloody marys and mimosas. Michael, why don’t you and your parents talk outside? We’ll be fine in here until you’re ready to come in.”

Brava, Heather.

Alone outdoors with my son and ex-husband, I’m uncertain how to begin. My prepared script has been rendered useless by this unexpected turn of events, and I’m not a master of improvisation. But I need to set the record straight. “Henry, I did not go out and find a bike ‘like the one Michael used to have.’ This is the original bicycle from his childhood.”

“But I thought it was stolen,” he says, turning to Michael, whose gaze remains fixed on the bike as if he can’t believe his own eyes.

“It happened such a long time ago. I—I don’t remember now,” Michael says, the classic reluctant witness. Then again, maybe the incident with Mr. O. was so traumatic, he blocked it from memory.

“I can understand that,” I say, sympathetic. “But when I visited Mrs. Ostrowski next door, she reconstructed the whole story for me about how her husband took away the bike to punish you for crashing it into his garden. I didn’t believe her until she found the bike a couple of weeks ago, locked away in his old workshop.”

“She just now found it after all these years? That makes no sense,” says Henry.

I walk them through the sequence of events, explaining how John lied to Nancy about donating the bike to charity.

“Why didn’t you just tell us the truth?” Henry says to Michael. “I would’ve made sure the bastard returned your bike that same day.”

“I don’t know, Dad. I guess I was afraid.” His voice small and whiny, Michael sounds as though he’s regressed to the actual time of the incident. Prepared for this response, I leap to his defense.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You were a little kid, and Mr. O. was bullying you. He was a terrible man, Michael. His own wife referred to him as a piece of shit.”

Both Henry and Michael look astonished by this revelation. Or gobsmacked, as Mum might put it. “Mrs. Ostrowski said that?” Michael asks.

“I know, it’s a shocker. Anyway, this is my fault too.”

“How so?”

“I should have been there for you. I should’ve paid more attention. Maybe I would’ve figured out something else was going on—that you were hiding the truth from us.”

“How could you know that?” Michael says.

“What I mean is, I was too impatient with you, too absorbed in my work all the time. I see that now. Sometimes when you were upset, I didn’t take the time to figure out what the real problem was. I was too quick to jump to conclusions. Now I understand why you disliked being left alone. I’ll bet this wasn’t the only time Mr. O. bullied you.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Bullying is no joke. Maybe the boy should have seen a therapist,” says Henry unexpectedly. My ex is not big on therapy. He casts an accusing glance at me, suggesting it is indeed all my fault for failing to act on this. It would’ve been my job to do so. Henry’s job was to travel around the country raking in truckloads of money, which he would then spend on extravagant gifts and ski weekends with Michael. That’s what the fun parent gets to do.

“A therapist, great idea,” says Michael, scowling. “Maybe it’s not too late. I’m sure I must still need professional help to get over some asshole taking away my bike a million years ago.” He walks around the bicycle, examining it. “It’s true. This is my old bike, isn’t it? Unbelievable.”

“I had it refurbished at the best repair shop in town. It will be a great bike for Benny when he’s older,” I say. But not wanting to glom all the credit, I add, “Mrs. Ostrowski helped clean it up too.”

“It looks like new,” he agrees.

My hands are twitching nervously, so I walk over to the bicycle and grip the handlebars to steady myself. Then I address Michael with my prepared remarks. Afraid to meet his eyes right now, I stare down at the bike instead as I speak. “I’m not sure how to say this, but it’s no secret you and I have trouble getting along sometimes, trouble communicating. At the risk of sounding like a therapist myself, we have some unresolved issues. Getting this old bike back resolves one of those issues, at least. Maybe we could regard it as a positive sign – a step forward on the right foot. A way to mend things between us. Know what I mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his tone is sharp. “No, not really. I don’t see how finding an old bicycle is gonna fix everything that’s fucked up about this family.”

Now I look up from the bike to gaze at him. “Are we so very fucked up?” I ask, hoping the tremble in my voice isn’t too pronounced.

“Oh no, we’re all supernormal here,” says Michael.

This isn’t how the discussion was supposed to go. I vaguely remember Audrey saying something impressive-sounding about the need for basic communication, and how first you need to speak if you want the other person to listen, but I can’t figure out how to work this into my argument. “I’m not saying this will fix everything. It’s going to take time, and—”

“I don’t get how this has anything at all to do with the bad shit between you and Dad.”

“Which bad shit do you mean, specifically? Dad divorcing me for Alice?”

“Well, yeah, that . . . but also what led up to it.”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I already told you, I blame myself for not paying enough attention when you were younger, for being too caught up in my work.”

“I used to think it was your work that bothered me all those years. But it was the secret life that went along with the work.”

I think of the main character in Bicoastal, who really did have a secret life. But I say to Michael, “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? Think hard, Mom.” He casts a meaningful glance at his father.

“What secret life? What did you tell him, Henry?”

I think my ex-husband would rather be on a holiday in hell than participating in this conversation. “This isn’t the time or place, Margaret,” he says, pivoting on one heel to go indoors. “There’s a roomful of guests inside, waiting to celebrate my birthday.”

“You’re not getting off that easy,” I say, grabbing him by the arm to stop him from leaving. “Somebody needs to tell me what is going on.” I turn to face Michael. “What did your father say about me? Tell me what the hell he said.”

Michael squirms with discomfort. “He told me you’d been having a long-standing affair with your boss, and that’s why you acted so distant and so obsessed with your job all the time. He said it made life very lonely for him.”

“Wait, back up. He told you I was having an affair? With Robert?” I am incredulous.

“He didn’t use the word ‘affair.’ It’s more like he implied it.”

“And how exactly did your father imply this?”

“He said the two of you had a—I think he called it an ‘unholy alliance.’ He said Robert was more than just a boss to you.”

“An unholy alliance? Oh, that’s good,” I say with a sardonic laugh. “Did you believe this, Henry? Did you think I was having a years-long affair, or was it a convenient way to justify your own behavior?”

“I suspected it might be true.”

“You suspected. Did it never occur to you to ask me?”

“Since when do we ask each other things in this family? That one time I told you about what happened on the road—”

“That one time? Meaning there was only one time you strayed, or only one time you confessed to it?”

“—I felt like you would have preferred not to know.”

Well, he’s right about that. “Since we’ve chosen this occasion to air the family’s dirty laundry,” I say, “why don’t we ask each other now? Did you have other affairs when you were traveling on business?”

“Dad, you had affairs on your business trips?” says Michael, wide-eyed.

“Again, I don’t think this is the right time—”

“Why not? Because it’s your birthday?” My voice grows louder with every sentence. “Or because you don’t want to disclose something you’d prefer to keep swept under the rug? Because I’m happy to disclose what happened between Robert and me. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

“Omigod,” Michael says.

I shove my hands into my pockets to hide the resumed twitching. “How can I make you believe me?” I ask, blinking away tears. “I wish there was some way to prove what I’m saying.”

“I do believe you.”

“You do?”

“I can see you’re telling the truth. You’ve always been a shitty liar. You tell it like it is, even when you should use a little tact.”

I can’t help smiling at this, grateful that he’s finally willing to give me a fair shake. “When did Dad tell you—oh, I mean, when did he imply—that I was having this alleged affair?”

Michael and Henry exchange uncomfortable glances. “The day I found out he was seeing Alice.”

Of course. A light bulb illuminates inside my brain. I was bewildered by Henry’s bizarre, unjust accusation – but now that I understand it, I’m downright furious. “Son of a bitch!” I say to Henry, shoving him in the chest with both hands. “I can’t believe you would stoop to this! Is it so important for you to be the popular parent every time?”

“Hey, watch it!” Henry says, raising his arms in self-defense. “I don’t see what popularity has to do with anything.”

“Oh, I think you do. Poor put-upon Henry, so lonesome and abandoned. If you made Michael believe I was the one to turn my back on our marriage, then you couldn’t be faulted for finding someone else. You didn’t hesitate to throw me under the bus, just so you could look like the good guy.” I glare at him with disgust. “Honestly, Henry.”

He must recognize there’s no acceptable answer because he doesn’t even try to cobble together a defense. He throws a questioning glance at Michael, who says, “Jesus, Dad,” and turns away, scowling.

Knowing Henry, he will later try to entice our son back to his corner with some form of bribe. But for now, Henry is in retreat, Michael is in shock, and I’m still in attack mode. As Henry hurries back into the house, I follow close on his heels, still ranting. “We are not finished talking about this, Henry Schuyler! You owe me and Michael an apology. This lie has been poisoning our relationship while you’ve been getting off scot-free.”

Once inside the house, I’m startled to remember that twenty-five partygoers are now witnesses to our family feud. I study the sea of faces again. With all the murmurs and side conversations, I’m not sure how much they’ve heard. Most of the guests wear dopey grins, suggesting they’re pleasantly hammered with the lovely buzz that comes from day-drinking on an empty stomach. Their expressions are more curious than uncomfortable, more amused than embarrassed. My confrontation with Henry has reached a dead end. I’m deciding what to do next when I feel a tap on my left shoulder. I turn around to face Audrey and Petey. The dog is wagging his tail, always happy to work a crowd . . . but Audrey has tears streaming down her face.

“Nathan broke up with me. He called while Petey and I were on our walk.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“He stayed up all night thinking about it. He decided if I loved him enough, I wouldn’t put him off this way. He said it had to be an emotional decision, not a rational one, and if I couldn’t summon up that kind of emotion for him, it wasn’t meant to be.”

“And what do you think?”

“I—I think he’s right. But it’s still sad.” She swipes one palm across her cheek to wipe the tears away. Petey cocks his head and emits his polite little fff sound, as if trying to reassure her that everything will be okay.

“I’m sorry.”

She looks around the room, bewildered. “There’s a potty here?” It seems odd that Audrey should use the toddler term for bathroom until it sinks in that she is referring to the birthday celebration – Henry’s surprise potty, as they would call it in New Yawk. I nod in response.

“I texted to say I was coming back. I need to pee wicked bad. That second cuppa coffee was a big mistake.”

“End of the hall.” I point her in the right direction as I extract Petey’s leash from her hand. I lean in towards her to say, “Go pee, and then let’s get the hell out of here.”

I note Alice is also leaning in, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation. Now she’s taking big strides in our direction, arms outstretched, broom skirt swaying. “You and your friend should stay for the party,” she says in her treacly radio commentator voice. “We’re all a family here.”

You are not my fucking family.

The words reverberate with such volume inside my head, I think I’ve shouted them to the group. But looking around at the complacent faces of the half-stewed guests, I realize I must not have spoken. I’m sure nothing would make Alice happier than for me to leave – but what did Heather once say about her? “She never stops with the giving.” I suppose this is Alice being selfless and compassionate. But is that what’s really going on here? It dawns on me – if I stomp out, Alice will be the hero to everyone in this room. She’ll come off as the warm, inclusive one, and I’ll be the shrill harridan. Alice will be Portugal, I’ll be North Korea.

No. I will not let her play me like that. I am going to out-Alice Alice.

I turn to her and smile. “What a lovely idea; of course we’ll stay.” I raise my voice to make sure the group can hear me. “Alice, could you get a bowl of water for Petey? And mimosas for me and my friend.” I throw my arms around Alice’s neck and reward her with a big hug as I say, “You’re a lamb.” And as I glance over her shoulder, I see my daughter-in-law Heather – facing Audrey and me with a shit-eating grin on her face, her two hands raised, giving me a double thumbs-up.