The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,73
every old folks’ home in the area, and when she called Wyndon Manor they told her where I eat every night.”
“She told you that?”
“No. But I’m a journalist, remember? It’s not that difficult.”
“Yes, if you can do it, I suppose it isn’t,” I teased, and he rewarded me with another wide smile.
“Annie,” he said, taking my hands into his, “would things have been different? Do you ever wonder?”
“No,” I lied.
“Maybe if I had made my money earlier, if I had proved somehow that I was more than a struggling reporter, doing a job anyone could do, after all—”
I set my glass down on the bar carefully before I turned to him, trying to calm myself, my fluttering heart, my suddenly wobbling chin.
“Peter, I was young, I was under a terrible strain.”
“I know. And on top of it, your father, what happened to your mother. I don’t blame you, Ann, for choosing… the security of Theo. I suppose you didn’t think I’d amount to anything.”
“Oh, Peter,” I sighed. “It wasn’t that simple.”
“Maybe it was. That’s why you stayed.”
“I stayed?” I sputtered, then wiped my lip with my hand. “You stayed, Peter! You were the one glued to the spot!”
“Annie, don’t you remember?”
My head swam and I squinted, as if it would help. It was too much, suddenly, this collision of past and present. Weren’t we two sets of people, our younger selves and our older ones? I closed my eyes, picturing myself at thirty, the freshness of my face, the reflection of my slim legs in the bathtub water when the afternoon light hit it just so. I tried to hold on to that picture, that person.
“Maybe you’ve erased it all from your mind,” he whispered. “I can’t blame you. I don’t blame you for anything.”
I inhaled briskly, audibly, washing away the moment with a determined smile. I wanted to tell him all was forgiven, and all was forgotten, but it never would be. If we found a way to carry on, it would have to be with a burden on our backs. How could it not be?
“You know what you need?” he said suddenly.
“A cheeseburger?”
“Ouch,” he said and smiled. “No, a lawyer.”
“What for?”
“A custody and paternity lawyer. You can fight for the right to see Ellie all you like, but given the situation, hadn’t you better get an attorney? And hadn’t you better be certain she’s actually your granddaughter?”
“You don’t really think Tinsley’s dalliances could have been going on all these years?”
He shrugged. “It’s best to be sure, isn’t it? And if your daughter-in-law’s been unfaithful repeatedly, well, it will at least scare the pants off her.”
He looked devilish as he said it, his eyes twinkling like they did when we would think of practical jokes to pull on our friends. He was always planning shenanigans in the boys’ locker room after football practice. Innocent things like hiding people’s shoes when it snowed. Once his algebra teacher walked into his classroom and found all the chairs gone. He’d carried them all the way down onto the football field, two at a time.
He reached into his wallet, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. A friend of his, he said.
“This is very gracious of you, Peter, under the circumstances.”
“Annie, if the circumstances were any different, do you think I’d even know a paternity lawyer?”
“You mean you—”
He waved me away with one hand. “I took one look at his school picture when he was around five, and I knew he wasn’t mine.”
“This,” I sighed, “wasn’t exactly the friendly, jovial drink I had in mind.”
“Then you’ll have to come back another night,” he said and smiled.
He tried to cajole me into staying for dinner, but I said no. The last time, we’d taken things a little too fast. It was time, I thought, for us to try it slow again.
September 15, 1967
no breakfast
PETER DIDN’T CALL TO EXPLAIN, he came to the house. He sat in the car and waited until I noticed he was there. The children were napping, so I went out and sat with him, against my better judgment.
I forgave him the minute I opened the car door and saw him, eyes wet, face drawn. I forgave him before I heard his voice, before it cracked, before he pleaded, before his ghastly reason tumbled out. And then, afterward, I felt less forgiving. How to account for this? I was ready for any number of things, for flat tires and out-of-town guests and croup. I could have forgiven a thousand