Twilight Child

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The rights of grandparents to visit their beloved grandson pit them against their remarried daughter-in-law.

FRANCES watched him as he stood in the patch of garden in the sweltering night, squinting into the grate on which the steaks sizzled, intense and absorbed in his task. In the airconditioned cool of the den, she sipped the martini he had mixed with scrupulous care. It was strange and bitter to her taste. Music spilled softly from the speakers. Mozart, he had said. She whispered the name and continued to watch him.

He wore a blue blazer, light gray flannels, and a floppy polka dot bow tie, which, in Dundalk, would have certainly seemed eccentric. But in the environment of this townhouse in Columbia, it was, she supposed, perfectly appropriate.

The candles he had lit in the den cast a flickering orange glow on the books, some helter-skelter, some standing like soldiers, in the paneled bookcases. On the walls were paintings, real paintings, not just prints. Mostly, they were splotches of deep colors in strange shapes. Abstract art, he had called them, expressing the hope that she loved them. She did not give him cause to think otherwise. It was all very wonderful and mysterious and she felt transported into an environment totally different from any she had ever known.

She had, in a way, expected this first formal date to be exactly as it was turning out. No, there were no disappointments. In her life, that was most unusual.

"I know it’s confusing."

Those were his very first words to her, soft and considerate, yet unmistakably authoritative. It was, after all, his department and she was hired merely as a temporary to check input forms for some computer program, of which she understood little. He did not know, of course, that she was mortified by her failure. Nor could he see the symptoms of her agitation, the sudden tightness in her stomach, the tremors in her knee joints, the dryness in the roof of her mouth.

Patiently, like some kindly teacher, he had re-explained the process, and by the time he looked up at her, showing dark brown eyes with yellow flecks, her symptoms had disappeared.

"I’m terribly sorry," she had whispered. She hadn’t expected the apology to be as abject as it must have sounded. Apparently, though, it struck a chord of sympathy in him, and later in the day he had stopped by her desk, looking over her shoulder until she felt the symptoms begin again.

"Now you got it," he had told her. This time, the receding symptoms left anger in their wake. He is treating me like a child, she thought defensively. The way she sometimes treated Tray, her five-year-old, when he did something right after repeated failures.

"Thank you," she had replied, wondering if he caught the tinge of sarcasm. It frightened her to think so, and she turned to look up at him and flash him a quick smile. In that instant, she sensed that he had, in some strange way, photographed her with his mind. It was so unexpected and illogical and ill-timed that she tried to force herself to deny it. But that didn’t stop her from thinking about it, and soon she simply dismissed it as a mirage.

This is ridiculous, she had told herself the next day as she hunched over the forms, feeling his gaze at her back destroying her concentration. And when she got up to drop her batch of finished forms in the collection tray, the gaze continued to follow her. To test her imagination, she turned swiftly, only to confirm her instinct. Through the glass partitions of his office, he was, indeed, watching her, too absorbed to discover his embarrassment. When he did, he grew flustered, blushed scarlet, and his hand inadvertently brushed against a half-filled coffee mug, which sent its contents onto his lap. He knew, of course, that she had seen the mishap, and now it was her turn to be embarrassed.

She must have been to him some kind of a curiosity, she decided. Certainly he was not looking at me as a woman, she assured herself, although vanity dictated that she take stock of herself, which she did immediately in the mirror of the ladies room. That morning she had allowed herself a light dab of lipstick and only the faintest touch of mascara, wondering if even that little makeup was appropriate to her recent widowhood.

Charlie, Chuck’s father, still wore a scrap of black crepe on his shirt. It was as if he had dedicated his whole being to memorializing his son. Of course, she did understand his pain, the lonely agony of his and Molly’s loss. Chuck had been, after all, their only child, the entire product of their long marriage. It gave her guilt feelings to assess her own grief and find it wanting. At times she wondered if Charlie wore his scrap of black crepe solely to remind her of her widowhood. It was, she knew, an unworthy thought. By then, she was having lots of those. Particularly disturbing was the eerie sense of freedom that Chuck’s death had given her. Grass widowhood had actually been more lonely than the real thing was. Now there was no more apprehension, no more anxiety, no more waiting. Chuck was never coming home, ever again.

Her scrutiny of herself had proved that she was reasonably neat. She had ironed her skirt and blouse the night before. There were no tears in her panty hose. Her chestnut hair, washed, set and brushed that morning was, well, in the flattering light, nice. Her skin, if one ignored the little milky way of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks, was clear. As always, she ignored the circles under her eyes, a genetic gift from her mother, destined to deepen and darken, as her mother’s had done as despair over her father’s loss and declining health slowly destroyed the woman’s life.

Her image in the mirror had been oddly reassuring, marking what was, in retrospect, a new chapter in her life. At the time, it was impossible to acknowledge such a fact. It was too soon. Even now, watching Peter squint into the smoke, it was still, chronologically at least, too soon. Or was it?

She had squirreled away the memory of their first full-length conversation. Most of her responses had been evasions. Had she been too frightened, too conscious of her own vulnerability? He had materialized beside her in the company cafeteria. She had sidled off by herself, deliberately eschewing the company of her co-temporaries. Later she would question that contention, since she had observed him in line behind her and it had set her wondering why he was not in the executive dining room where he belonged.

"Do you mind?" he had asked, putting his tray down beside hers.

"Of course not, Mr. Graham." What else could she have said? She was, after all, not exactly annoyed. Surely curious. But she refused to give herself permission to feel flattered. She did remember, however, that she had posed to herself the inevitable question, "Why me?"

"Peter," he had said. "My name is Peter."

After an awkward silence, she had said, "This seems like a very nice place to work." It seemed an embarrassingly trite response, and she had had to pause to ride out a difficult moment." . . . Peter."

"Yes, it is. I am happy here," Peter said tentatively. But the message he conveyed was very clear. Happy here? He was clearly advertising a condition of his life outside of the office and scrutinizing her for a reaction. When he observed nothing definitive, he looked down at his tray and cut his beef patty with a fork. "Do you live around here?" he asked, obviously seeking a new tack.

"About forty minutes away," she said. She wasn’t sure if she was being clumsy, guarded, or merely afraid to tell him Dundalk, as if it would define her as being beneath him, a thought that brought an immediate sense of belligerence. "Dundalk," she said, slightly snappish. She felt better after getting it out.

He shrugged.

"I’ve never been there. I live in Columbia. Just ten minutes from the office." He looked up at her, but when she returned his gaze, he withdrew his own. "I’ve got a townhouse. Not bad for a bachelor. I’m divorced."

There was no mistaking the approach, of course. She wasn’t that naive, she told herself. She also couldn’t yet quite conceive herself to be available, even for this type of conversation. Besides, she had forgotten how to participate in the ritual. No, she had never really known. With Chuck the evolution was natural, the contrivances nonexistent.

She had been working as a receptionist in a daytime radio station with its studios and towers on the edge of a marsh north of Baltimore. Chuck’s job was to climb and check the structure of the three directional towers that sent out the station’s signal. From the window beside her desk, she would, with her heart in her throat, watch him climb, a romantic and courageous figure in cowboy boots and tight jeans, golden hair flowing in the breeze.

It was always a relief to see him descend and move gracefully toward the little building that housed the studios. While he waited to give his report to the engineer, they would drift into conversation which, in time, turned into what she supposed people termed courtship. Then came marriage, motherhood, estrangement, and widowhood.

In her mind the chronology of events became blurred, leaving her with only the terrible memory of perpetual loneliness and the never-ending search within herself for blame. So not everything natural was automatically good, she had told herself later when the comparisons between Chuck and Peter rose more sharply in her mind.

But, in that first conversation, Peter had persisted.

"They say it’s supposed to be easy for men. I can tell you, it’s not. Even though I wasn’t married very long." He drew in a deep sigh and offered a smile. To foreclose on his asking the inevitable question, she interjected her own.

"Any kids?"

"No, thank goodness."

"You don’t like kids?"

"Oh, I like kids, all right. I mean it’s lucky we didn’t have any. No. I do like kids. She didn’t, you see."

"I have a five-year-old," she had replied.

"That’s terrific," he had said, but she had noted the considerable damper her seeming unavailability put on his initial enthusiasm. He actually flushed, and she noted that he pushed his tray a trifle forward, as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. She debated telling him of her marital status, but by the time she made her decision, he had looked at his watch as if he had just remembered an important meeting, gotten up, muttered a good-bye, and gone off. She wasn’t certain whether to be insulted or relieved.

Assessing her reactions later, she had wondered why she did feel even a smidgen of righteousness. She was, after all, a very recent widow and very conscious of propriety. How could she not be? With Charlie still in deep mourning and Molly breaking into an occasional lip tremble and Frances herself trying to look appropriately grieved, although it was difficult to maintain the pose, since she wasn’t feeling it. It was, in fact, awful to live with the feeling of liberation that Chuck’s death had given her. Yet it was only a partial liberation, since she continued to search for reasons her marriage failed. Death could not erase her own failure. If she only knew where it lay. What were her marital sins of omission and commission? Was she destined to repeat her mistakes and relive her disappointments? On the plus side, at least she had been left with a fine, beautiful, healthy child and some semblance of family.

It took her a week to tell Peter the truth about her status. Not that he wasn’t friendly after their conversation in the cafeteria, but it was in a purely office sense. He had continued to watch her. There was no mistaking that. Actually, she watched him as well, and not without some womanly reaction. It was a fact that was troublesome to admit to herself, especially at night, lying on her back looking at the endless expanse of shadowless ceiling. She took her mind off it by listening for Tray’s breathing, waiting for his heart-stopping little sighs.

"A widow? Are you really?" he had said, a reaction that did not hide his elation. "You’re so young."

"I don’t feel so young." Somehow, twenty-five did not seem very young. Considering what she had already been through, orphaned and widowed, that quarter of a century seemed like eons. But she had hastened to put her widowhood in its accurate time frame. "Less than two months ago. He fell off an oil rig in Saudi Arabia."

"How terrible," he had replied.

What she had wanted to say was that it had been terrible for him to have been there in the first place, terrible for him to have felt this need of both adventure and distance, terrible for Tray to have been left fatherless. For her, the tragedy had been her inability to engage his permanent interest. True husbands and fathers did not volunteer to go off to die in faraway places. Not without wars or compelling and unavoidable reasons. It was odd, but the idea of his death filled her more with anger than with remorse.

Frances and Peter had begun to take their lunches together every day, and although she did feel that others in the office were taking notice, she chose to ignore their occasional odd glances and chance remarks. There was, indeed, no doubt about his interest in her.

"How does your boy take it?" he had asked. His probes were, she observed, very careful, as if he were frightened of offending her. It’s all right, she wanted to say. But she had her own fears to contend with. After all, he was her boss, even though she was temporary. And he was vastly more educated, a computer engineer, an executive in a big company, a man of means and substance. Her life had been so . . . so inconsequential compared to his. Was the mysterious power of attraction able to bridge that gap? She had no trouble thinking up questions to nag at her.

She had no one to confide in, of course. No one to whom she could express her fears and doubts, or even to merely report her conversations with Peter. There had been relationships with young couples at the beginning of her marriage to Chuck, but with Chuck’s long absences, those had gone out the window. She had felt like a third wheel, which also considerably dampened her enthusiasm for socializing. Then bringing up Tray alone became a more acceptable excuse for her isolation. The easy way out was to fall on the mercy of her in-laws, whose agenda was a lot different from her own. Charlie would, of course, be appalled by her growing friendship with Peter. To him, widows mourned, especially Frances, who had married his golden-haired prince. It wasn’t just a matter of wearing black, which she had dutifully done for a few weeks, it was also a question of wearing an appropriate expression of inconsolable grief. She was not very good at that. For Charlie, she knew, the tangible symbols of her mourning would never, could never, be enough. And yet, he might have prevented Chuck from leaving home and dying. But he had not raised a finger to stop him. He hadn’t even tried.

She might have confided in Molly. Between them had always lain the possibility of real friendship and understanding. But the opportunity always fell short of the wish. Molly, after all, had given her life to Charlie, and one could never be sure how one’s confidences might be distorted.

But when Peter asked her out for the evening, she invariably refused.

"It’s my son," she told him apologetically. It was only partly true. She could always have dropped him off at her in-laws’. But then they would be curious about her absence, and she was not very good at telling lies.

"What about weekends?"

"I really can’t." Of course, she wanted to. And she hated the burden of fear and guilt.

"Why?" After a while, it became his refrain.

"Bring your son, then," he had begged her.

That would hardly have been a solution. Tray would spill the beans to Charlie in two seconds flat.

"It’s just too soon, Peter."

She didn’t explain about Charlie and Molly. Perhaps Peter would think her too weak, too dependent. He just might be right about that. Then, of course, there was the chance of familiarity breeding contempt. It was nice and safe to have these cozy little lunches in the cafeteria. She could keep herself guarded so that he might not truly know the dimensions of her inadequacy. In that way, she could avoid disappointment.

"Then when would it not be too soon?" he had asked.

"I’m really not sure."

"Just to go out. A simple date. Maybe just a walk in the park on a Sunday afternoon."

"You don’t understand about Sundays. Sundays are with my in-laws."

"Tell them you’re with a friend."

"There aren’t any," she admitted with some trepidation.

"Yes there is," he protested. "Me."

"I can’t tell them that."

"So make someone up."

She hadn’t answered. But he had triggered her resolve. Despite her inability to be a truly good liar, she did make someone up, a friend at work, and she gave her a name. Sally. A nice innocuous name. When she was with Charlie and Molly, she would make sure to talk about her friend Sally. She had even given her a bit of history, a widow with one child, like Frances. They had a lot in common.

"You must bring her around," Molly told her. "It’s nice for you to have friends. Especially now."

"Do you good," Charlie had agreed. "Keep your mind off things." How could she explain to him that her entire life was not absorbed by grief?

But the lunches continued. Then, as Sally became more real and her friendship with Peter deepened, Frances would spend an hour after work with him in a bar, which meant that either Molly or Charlie had to pick Tray up from school, a chore they both welcomed. There were other worries in that. Charlie never missed an opportunity to mythologize his golden prince to Tray. By then, Chuck had become a heroic figure in Charlie’s view and surely in Tray’s mind, a man of true courage who had risked his life and limb for his loved ones and died covered with glory in a foreign land. What protection could she muster against that? Certainly not the truth—that Chuck had been a neglectful father who had not wanted his own son, who had wished to be as far away from family responsibility as possible.

"Why can’t you stay?" Peter would press. "We can have dinner."

"I’ve explained that." Actually her explanations had been sketchy, but he hadn’t pressed her for more than she was willing to tell. She had not, at that point, painted an unflattering picture of Chuck. He was simply her young husband who had died far away from home and had left her a $20,000 life insurance policy and in-laws who doted on her son and treated her with a little too much concern.

"You have your own life."

"It’s not as simple as that."

It wasn’t exactly an argument. They had already begun to hold hands under the table.

"Is it me?"

"Of course not."

"Then why?"

"I have obligations, responsibilities." It was much safer to be vague and general.

He was far less reticent and much more specific than she. His ex-wife, a professor of mathematics at Syracuse University, the area where he had been brought up and where his parents still lived, had not wanted a family, had preferred childless independence. He had thought that was an idea that time would dissipate. It hadn’t, and soon she was advocating open marriage, which, to him, had been a devastating suggestion.

"Imagine that," he had told her. "She had absolutely no concept about the meaning of marriage as a commitment, a solemn bond. I mean, you don’t just lend yourself to the institution. The lines are very clear, honed by years of societal acceptance. Could you imagine advocating a group marriage? It’s humanly impossible." He had winced, showing the residue of pain.

"Did she give you a bad time of it?"

"To put it mildly. One day, I came home and there she was, in bed with a student."

"How awful."

"Neither of them made any attempt to move. You know what she said? ‘Stop being a child.’ Imagine that."

"Did you love her?"

"I thought I did."

"And then?"

He had looked at her for a long time before answering.

"It’s another thing you just don’t lend yourself to. If it’s there, it’s there all the way."

There was no mistaking his intensity, and she had sipped her beer to avoid any further references to that subject. There was no question about his intentions. It was her own that were confusing. Despite her widowhood and the long months of loneliness before, she still felt married, and the daily proximity to her possessive in-laws reinforced the feeling.

"There’s nothing worse than being alone," he said.

"Sometimes you can be with somebody and still be alone."

"I wonder which is worse."

"They’re both pretty terrible."

She watched Peter turn the steaks and cough away the smoke. Although he was smart enough to be an engineer, he was not an expert at barbecuing. But he was tenacious, and although dinner at his place had taken her by surprise, she was determined to be sophisticated about it, whatever that meant.

She sipped her martini, which was already making her slightly light-headed, listened to Mozart, sat back in the soft leather chair, and raised her feet to the hassock, continuing to observe him.

Peter Graham was wiry, smaller than Chuck, no more than an inch or two taller than she. His face was round and a bald spot was spreading on the top of his head, which was impossible to hide because of his tight curly hair. He wasn’t ruggedly handsome like Chuck, but attractive in a neat, spare way.

She watched him come inside in a swirl of smoke and poke around in the dining room, where he had set an elaborate table. Earlier, he had opened a bottle of red wine to "let it breathe." She had had no idea that wine breathed.

"Are you sure I can’t help?" she called from the den. He had given her explicit instructions to be a total guest, that it was his party all the way, and she had obeyed them. Besides, a sense of euphoria was taking possession of her, and the music and candlelight created the illusion that a magic carpet had spirited her away from the sober realities of her predicament.

He came into the den, bowed, and made a courtly theatrical gesture, offering his arm. She laughed, rose, felt slightly dizzy for a moment, took his arm, and let him lead her to the dining room.

Sitting across from him, she sipped the full-bodied red wine and ate her charcoaled steak. She watched the flickering candles cast shadows over his face.

"This is beautiful, Peter."

He lifted his wine glass.

"You’re beautiful," he said.

She could not remember if Chuck had ever told her that. Besides, she hadn’t felt beautiful for a long time.

"And you’re exaggerating," she joshed. To her mind, she was far from beautiful. Maybe pretty, in a well-scrubbed sort of way.

"Take my word for it."

"I hadn’t expected this, Peter. Your place is wonderful." It was certainly a long way from her own cramped little apartment in Dundalk.

"To tell you the truth, I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I know you said that you would. I trusted that, of course. But I felt that some unknown force would intervene at the last moment. Is it really you?"

"Really me." She felt a lump form in her throat. "Whatever do you see in me?" she asked.

"The future."

"Nobody can see the future," she told him honestly. She did not yet want to put it into words.

Earlier, she had told Molly and Charlie that she and Sally were going to take in a movie. They volunteered, of course, to take Tray overnight. "It will do you good," Molly had told her. She felt a sudden stab of guilt, which annoyed her. How dare they intrude? she thought.

"I’m so happy that you came," he said.

"Bet you say that to all the girls." The remark seemed shallow and stupid, which triggered the old worry about her inadequacy.

"No. No, really," he protested. "I’m not very good with the ladies." She knew he felt uncomfortable about having her to dinner at his house. She had assumed that when he said dinner, it would be at a restaurant. "Please don’t feel pressured," he assured her. "I just want you to see me on my turf." A test, she knew. For her, as well.

"The steak is marvelous," she said, sensing the intensity of his inspection.

"I can’t take my eyes off you, Frances," he blurted, the words expelled as if with regret. "Not from the beginning, from when I first saw you."

"Well then, you need glasses." She wondered if she had gotten into the habit of self-deprecation.

"I wear contacts," he said.

"Really?" She took another sip of wine and sliced into her steak.

"I can’t think of anything else," he said, momentarily confusing her.

"You can’t? But what?"

"But you."

"Me?" She smiled. "You have your work." Her hand swept the room. "Your music. Your books. Your paintings." She had none of these.

"Entertainments," he said. "To make up for what’s missing."

She shrugged, secretly flattered but suddenly cautious and guarded.

"Some people are crazy," she said, deliberately choosing the light touch. She concentrated on chewing her steak.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Put yourself down."

"Do I?"

"All the time."

She felt a tingle of belligerence.

"You do, too," she said. "Telling me how bad you are with the ladies."

"I am. I’m all thumbs."

"Not with me." It wasn’t quite true. He blushed often in her presence, and he sometimes seemed vague and uncomfortable, although she was always catching him looking at her, following her with his eyes.

"You’re either very kind or very unobservant."

"Maybe a little confused," she said. It was, of course, more caution than confusion. Not to mention being frightened.

"About what?"

"You," she said, quickly averting her eyes. She finished the wine, and he started to pour more, but she put her hand over the glass. Her eyes darted around the room, as if seeking protection. She was beginning to feel defenseless.

"Do you want to get me drunk?" she asked.

"Not so you don’t know what you’re doing."

"I always know what I’m doing," she said. She laughed suddenly. "Now there’s a fish story for you." She didn’t elaborate.

"God, I’m happy you’re here."

"Happy to be here."

Across the table, he watched her.

"I’m crazy about you, Frances."

He couldn’t be that, she told herself. Crazy about her? She repeated the words in her mind, wondering. To put your trust in someone required an enormous act of faith. She wanted to trust him, yearned to trust him. Hadn’t she lied for him about Sally? Or had it been for herself?

"It’s the wine."

"There you go again."

"Well, what do you expect me to say?" The fact was, she didn’t know exactly how to behave. But don’t stop, she said in her heart. He seemed to have heard her.

"I’m telling you how I feel. You don’t have to say anything."

"Just sit here and say nothing." I’ve done that most of my life, she thought.

"I don’t think of anything but you. I think I’ve already told you that."

"What about computers?"

"A far second."

It was strange to hear these things. But it was refreshing, like a glass of water after a long thirst. Was he really talking about her?

Despite Chuck’s death, she still could not shake the discipline of marriage. Hadn’t she been a true and faithful wife? Had she ever known another man in an intimate physical way? Chuck, she was sure, had felt some macho sense of pride in being the first, even though it had happened before they were married. Whether or not she had felt the pleasure that sex was supposed to bring was another story. The fact was that she had felt nothing. Nothing.

"I’m courting you, Frances," he whispered. "I’m so in love with you, I can’t stand it."

She looked at him and bit her lip. Her gaze drifted about the room.

"I know you must think that it’s happening too fast. I mean so soon after—" He cleared his throat. "I just can’t keep it in anymore, Frances. If I’m out of line, forgive me. It’s a fact, and I’m acknowledging it. I know I’m taking an awful chance."

"I don’t understand."

"You know. Going all out. Baring what’s in my heart." He paused. "And the other."

"The other?"

"My first marriage." The mention of marriage pounded home the message. His candor stunned her. But he continued relentlessly. "It crippled me, Frances. I can still see them both looking at me as if I was the mad one. Eight years and it’s still with me." His voice broke with emotion.

"People make mistakes," she said foolishly, wondering in what other way she was expected to respond. She knew that she was speaking for herself as well. We’ve both been crippled, she wanted to say, but didn’t. She did sense that she was beginning to look at him in a new way.

"I’m dead serious, Frances," he said. In the flickering candlelight, his eyes seemed moist and glowing.

"I’m not questioning that, Peter," she said gently.

He smiled boyishly and showed her his palms. They were damp with perspiration.

"I feel like an adolescent. Dammit, I’m thirty-eight years old and I want to write you love notes and carve our initials in trees." He paused for a moment, and she felt pressured to respond in some way.

"It’s just that I’m not prepared . . ." she stammered. Prepared for what? Had she ever been prepared for anything? "I’m a widow with a small child, Peter." She looked around the room. "And my real life is far, far away from here. Really it is. You’ve never been to Dundalk." It was a working-class section of Baltimore, actually a bit of a joke in some circles, which triggered in Frances a pride in it that it didn’t deserve.

"Actually, I did go once. After you told me where you lived. I found your place, and I wanted to come up and visit you, but I didn’t have the courage."

"Courage? You needed courage?"

"Cross my heart."

"So now you know."

"Know what?"

"That Dundalk is different. In two words, the pits."

"I didn’t think so. I thought it had character. An honest place." He hesitated. "It doesn’t pretend to be what it isn’t. Besides, you live there, and that made it important to me."

"Really, Peter. There is a difference. I don’t mean age. Thirteen years is no big deal. But how about mental distance? Here you are with I don’t know how many college degrees, and I just barely got out of high school. You know very little about me. Very little."

"I know what my heart tells me."

"How do you know you can trust it? Engineers don’t think like that. Do they?"

"All right then. Let me explain the way an engineer thinks. I know I have this need . . . to be with someone . . . to love someone . . . to share with someone . . . to love and protect and support . . . to make me live at optimum potential. I know that’s my missing link. So, subconsciously, I surely have been looking around. Ever since . . . well, I won’t go into that again. Then you cross my path. Aha, something in my engineer’s mind reacts. Even engineers have instincts. That’s it, I acknowledge to myself after giving the matter a great deal of thought. . . . I have found the bit of machinery, the device, that eliminates the missing link."

Yes, she thought with a sudden burst of emotion, that’s it exactly. The missing link. Was it possible for her to find it as well? In Peter? Yet she had been deprived of love and sharing and friendship for so long, she distrusted her own sense of need. She did not, however, distrust her growing feeling of confidence. She had, after all, seriously engaged this man’s full attention. Considering her long history of disappointments, that was no small achievement.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I’ve been programmed to know."

"People aren’t computers."

"Thank God." He reached out and took her hand. "So there. I’ve declared myself and my intentions. So that’s my half of the equation. What’s yours?"

"Mine?" She rolled the question around in her mind, watching him as he waited eagerly for her answer.

"I want the best for my son." She had expected some sign of discouragement. None came.

"Granted. But what about you?"

Whatever was happening, it was going too fast for her to comprehend. She felt slightly disoriented by the speed. So far, except for Tray, life had been a maze of dead ends. Nothing had turned out in even the remotest proximity to her dreams.

"Let’s postpone me, Peter," she sighed. "For the time being."

"When you’re looking at forty, things go much faster," he said. "Time gets more precious. I’ve just stood up to be counted. Could you at least tell me where you stand?"

"I’m not sure," she said honestly. With Chuck it had all seemed so simple. There had seemed to be less at risk. She had been living with Uncle Walter and his family, hating the sense of obligation and charity with which she had had to contend. He had a bakery in Timonium, and she had worked long hours there all through high school for room and board and spending money. She had felt like an indentured servant, and the job at the radio station had meant freedom and independence. Then Chuck had come along, offering more promise, a home of her own, a family. That disappointment dulled the promise of Peter’s words. Still, she had to think beyond the lessons of bitter experience. She felt like a cork on a wave. Go with the tide, she begged herself, wondering if she could muster the courage.

They finished their dinner in silence. Then he led her back into the den. He poured two brandies in snifters, and they sat on the floor and took off their shoes. He reached out and caressed her arm, and she felt the rise of goose bumps on her flesh.

"I’ve been very empty for a long time," he said. He bent over, brought her free hand to his lips and kissed it. So she was not the only one in the world in desperate need, she thought.

"I’m very frightened, Peter," she said finally, after she had let him kiss her deeply.

"You’re not alone in that regard."

Again she let him kiss her, responding. Was it wrong? Suddenly, she stiffened and turned away. She had felt the tangible presence of her in-laws, Molly and Charlie, cursing her descent into infidelity. Leave me alone, she cried within herself.

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"Nothing."

"You won’t tell me?"

"Not now."

He kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, her cheeks. He found her lips, and she felt his hands caressing her everywhere.

"Stay the night," he whispered.

Her mind whirled with objections. She had promised her in-laws that she would come over early enough the next morning so that they could all go to the Boat Show in Annapolis, and they were sure to call her apartment at an ungodly hour to remind her.

"I’m totally unprepared for this," she said hesitantly.

"I want to love you. That’s all."

She felt surrounded by him. Not that she offered any calculated resistance. It had been so long since she had been in a man’s arms—Chuck’s arms. And there had been no feeling in that, no sense of protection. No pleasure at all.

She was surprised to feel Peter’s hard, corded muscles. His hands were gentle and knowing. She felt alive, wanted. Someone was loving her, someone was caring, someone was pleasing her. Her alone.

When she awoke, she did not feel as if she was a stranger. There were no where-am-I’s or lapses of memory, nor did she feel that what she had done, what she was doing, required a rebuke, from herself, from anybody. She lay in his arms, and it was, she felt, her natural place. In their haste they had not drawn the blinds, and the sun streamed into the room, a perfect lighting counterpoint to her feelings.

For the first time in years, burdens had been lifted. In her mind, she felt a calm serenity. Her body felt light, replaced, as if she had been transformed. A miracle had occurred, she decided.

She felt him stir. His voice surprised her.

"Up?"

She nodded, nuzzling his chest.

"I know what it means now," he said.

"What what means?"

"To find that lost piece of yourself. The missing link. I found it." He kissed her earlobe. "You."

She put a finger on his lips, stopping his words. What she feared most was that it would go away—the way it had with Chuck. Comparisons had intruded all night, and she had fought them away like someone chasing bats in an attic. Finally, she had won. In the light of morning the fear had less power, but it was no less annoying. After last night, Chuck would always seem nothing more than a boy, a beautiful boy. His body had been tight and wonderful, without blemish, wrapped in a down of golden hair, a statue, equally as cold to the touch.

But Peter was fire. Behind the scholarly facade, the nervous beginning, were feeling and a mind that gave depth to his passion. Peter had made her rise from the dead.

Then she remembered, noting from the face of the digital clock on the dresser that it was nearly ten. She reached for the phone beside the bed and dialed her in-laws’ number. Molly answered.

"We were worried," she said. "No one answered at your place."

"I slept out." Brave words, Frances thought. Had she found her courage?

The hesitation was palpable.

"At your girlfriend’s?"

She looked toward Peter and caressed his face. No more, she thought. It’s my life. But she did not answer the question.

"You take Tray to the boat show. I’ll pick him up later. Is that okay?"

"Of course, dear." There was another long hesitation, an awkward moment. "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine." She felt Peter’s breath on her hair. "Wonderful, in fact."

"You sound strange."

"Strange or different?" she said playfully.

Actually, she wanted Molly to know and was bursting to tell her. Molly surely would understand. Not Charlie. Suddenly, a dark cloud seemed to roll over her thoughts. She felt a tug of guilt.

"Here’s Tray, dear," Molly said. She heard fumbling with the phone, then Tray’s high-pitched voice.

"Grampa painted the wagon. Daddy’s wagon."

She felt the gloom deepen.

"It’s really pretty. All red and shiny. And guess what we named it?"

"I give up."

"Three Charlies. Me, Daddy, and Grampa. That’s us. Three Charlies."

"That’s terrific," she said without conviction.

"And next year, Grampa promised we’re going to get a boat, a sailboat, like he got for Daddy. And you know what we’re going to name it?" He didn’t wait for her answer this time. "Three Charlies."

"Well, you have a good time today. Mommy will pick you up tonight."

"Wanna speak to Gramma?"

"That’s all right. I’ll see you tonight." She hung up. Her stomach felt knotted, and she closed her eyes as if in pain.

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"Nothing. Just kid stuff."

"More than that," he said.

"I suppose you can’t blame him," she sighed.

"Blame who?"

"Charlie. My father-in-law. Chuck was a junior. And he insisted on naming our son Charles, the third. That’s why we call him Tray."

"Tray?"

"Uno, dos, tres. Spanish. It was Charlie’s idea. He had a Hispanic marine buddy who was also a third. He was killed."

"Certainly less confusing than three generations with the same name."

"I wasn’t too happy with the idea. But then I had no real choice."

"You were the child’s mother."

"But this was a son, you see. Charlie’s grandson. If it had been a daughter, that would have been another story."

The memory of her acquiescence confounded her. She had wanted to name the child Sam, after her own father. "Let’s do it for Dad," Chuck insisted. "He’s big on continuity." She had never been able to fathom the relationship between men, especially between fathers and sons. In particular between Charlie and Chuck. She felt compelled to explain, to bring it up to date.

"Charlie’s love for Chuck was, well—fierce. I always felt inadequate to it. It was as if Chuck was always living under this weight of his father’s love. Now it seems to be happening again—Tray." She shook her head.

"It must be tough on a father to lose a son."

"And on a son to lose a father," she said, surprised at the sudden belligerence of her tone. "It’s all very mysterious."

"What is?" He kissed the back of her neck and stroked her hair.

"The male animal," she said.

"Not at all," he said. "We’re rather obvious."

When she turned round and saw him, she caught his meaning. Of course, she thought. But there was a lot more to it than just that.

It was dark when she pulled up to her in-laws’ house in Dundalk. They were in the den watching television. Tray was sitting on Charlie’s lap.

"It’s kind of late," Charlie said, looking at his watch. "We were really worried, weren’t we, Tray?"

"It does her good to get out, Charlie." Molly said, peering over her half-glasses. "She’s over twenty-one." She was sitting at the table, the inevitable pile of her students’ papers in front of her, pencil poised over some fifth-grade composition.

"Doesn’t mean you stop worrying," Charlie said. He winked at Frances. "And this little guy is bushed."

"I am not, Grampa," Tray said, frowning. His forehead wrinkled over heavy eyelids.

"Want toothpicks to keep them up?" Charlie laughed. He smiled at Frances. "We had one heck of a wonderful day. Saw the most fantastic boats."

"Grampa is going to get me my own sailboat someday. Like he did for Daddy."

"He’ll have to earn it, though," Charlie said. Tray’s eyes closed, and he laid his head on his grandfather’s shoulder. "We did have a great day," Charlie whispered. He looked at the boy, as if to be sure he was dozing, then raised his eyes to Frances. She felt she was being inspected.

"How’s Sally?" Charlie asked. She caught a tiny note of suspicion.

"Sally?" It had been a reflexive blunder, and before she could recover, Charlie reacted.

"You were out with Sally?"

"Yes, we had a wonderful time." It was too late, of course. The lie, she was certain, was loose in the room. Molly took off her glasses and looked at her curiously. Frances focused on the piece of crepe that Charlie wore pinned to his shirt. It only added to her sudden gloom.

"Where were you, Frances?" Charlie asked. She felt a sudden rush of guilt feelings.

"Now, Charlie, that is none of your business," Molly chided gently.

"I’d like to meet this Sally," Charlie said, watching Frances with hurt eyes. He had the haggard look of the inconsolable. His usually neat pepper-gray hair, once so well groomed, was shaggy and his long face seemed longer, the lines that framed his mouth deeper, the circles under his eyes darker.

"One day you will, I’m sure," Frances murmured, the effort to sustain the lie, she knew, a hollow sham. She detested herself for trying to perpetuate it.

"Of course we will," Molly said, with little conviction.

"Where does she live?" Charlie asked. Yet his probe seemed halfhearted, as if he hated the idea of knowing more.

"Oh, not far." Her pores had opened and perspiration began to slide down her back. She moved toward Tray and tapped his head. "Come on, little man, it’s time to go." Tray opened his eyes briefly and closed them again.

Charlie embraced the boy and seemed to tighten his grip.

"Really, Charlie," Molly interjected.

"I was just curious." He seemed embarrassed by his own interrogation.

"I really should take Tray home," Frances said.

"It’s not that I’m prying."

"But you are," Molly said.

"A recently widowed woman stays out the whole night—"

"Charlie, please," Molly snapped. "We have no right to question her. She slept at Sally’s. Didn’t you, Frances?"

Frances offered a nod, knowing it was meaningless. She was simply not made for lies.

"I didn’t want to hurt you," Frances said. She had difficulty getting the words out.

Charlie turned toward Molly.

"You said I was thinking the worst. Chuck’s not even cold, Molly." Frances heard the whine of pain.

"She has every right—" Molly began.

"A little respect. That’s all one could ask. A little respect."

"I know how you feel," Frances said.

"Bet there isn’t even a Sally." His dark eyes had moistened.

"I made that up," Frances said bravely. "I’m sorry. Believe me, I understand."

"I just felt"—he paused to gather control, still clutching Tray—"that you owed my son his honor. At least his honor. Instead of shacking up—"

"Charlie!" Molly snapped. Tray opened his eyes listlessly.

"I don’t feel too good about this, is all." With some effort, he put Tray off his lap. Still sleeping, he leaned against his mother. Charlie stood up.

"You just couldn’t wait," he said, choking on a sob.

"There’s nothing to wait for, Charlie," Molly said. "Chuck’s gone. She has her life."

"I hadn’t intended to hurt you. Either of you. It just—well—came about," Frances said. She wanted to convey the beauty and wonder of it, but they could never understand.

"It’s a lousy thing to do," Charlie said.

"I’m sorry, Charlie," she whispered as he left the room. She took Tray’s hand. Molly followed her out to her car.

"He doesn’t understand, Frances," Molly said.

She was beginning to resent her defensiveness, her guilt feelings, her dishonesty.

"I don’t know what he means. I did not dishonor Chuck. Chuck is dead."

"It’s just his own idea of right and wrong. Just bear with it, Frances. Please."

"But he made me feel so dirty."

"He’s just hurt. He can’t focus on anything but Chuck." She patted Tray’s head.

She got into the car and strapped Tray in beside her. Nodding good-bye to Molly, she drove away. Tears of rage and anger gave the streetlights halos. "It is my life," she cried. Tray stirred, and she patted him back to sleep.

After she put Tray to bed, she sat in the tiny living room of her shabby one-bedroom apartment. She had tried to keep it neat and cheerful, but the curtains had faded, and Tray’s boyish roughhousing had partially torn the curtain rods from the walls. The material on the couch and chairs was frayed, the rugs were stained. Paint was peeling off the ceiling. A picture of a sunset that Chuck had bought on their packaged honeymoon trip to the Poconos was awry. A fouled nest, she thought, grown cold and dreary with neglect. She felt helpless and inert in this environment.

Molly and Charlie had wanted her to come and live with them after Chuck had died. How could they know that the offer had become the most potent element of her anxiety? Once more, she would have to surrender her life. And Tray’s. But her refusal had been tentative, given in the guise of a postponement. "We’ll see," she had told them, deflecting their gentle arguments and the temptations of security, especially for Tray. She would not tell them that she had impossible dreams of making it on her own, of being, at long last, responsible for herself and her child.

Flights of fancy, she thought, scraps of tissue in the wind. Was she merely an easy mark for flattery and attention? She rebuked herself for the question. Peter had been totally sincere, offering a generous heart, devotion, sincerity, and sexual compatibility, an irresistible combination. A blurred picture of Chuck’s corpse, his flesh still warm in his casket beneath the ground, animated by her betrayal, forcing his arms against the closed lid, made her leap out of her chair. With her heart pounding, she paced the room, peered out the windows, double-checked the lock, looked in on Tray sleeping on the cot next to her empty double bed.

Maybe Charlie was right and this punishment of fear was the reward of her whorish act? She shook her head, hoping the movement would chase the terrible thought from her mind. I must resist, she begged herself. Help me, Peter, she whispered, remembering her ecstatic response, the sheer surprise at her body’s awakening as he led her into what had been, until then, uncharted territory. Nature’s way of telling me that I am a woman, she assured herself, grateful for his attention, his enveloping warmth, his sweet tenderness and consideration. And Charlie had thrown mud in the face of her joy, glorifying Chuck, who had given her none.

She reached for the phone, looked at the dial, then realized that she did not have Peter’s home number. But as she looked it up in the directory she had second thoughts. If she called, he would see how terribly vulnerable she really was, would understand the full extent of her need. Men were mysteries, she told herself. But he said he was crazy about her, hadn’t he? Or was that only an empty phrase, part of the way men concocted seductions? Had she sent him the signal of willingness to surrender herself, to give herself away to the first comer?

And worst of all, would he lose interest in her by morning? She closed the telephone book and tossed it aside.

Miraculously, he didn’t lose interest. In fact, he was more pressing and attentive than was proper for appearances at work.

"I’ll never be the same again," he said. He was forever finding ways to pass her desk and excuses to chat, and she felt his eyes following her everywhere. When she went to the ladies’ room, he was on her trail.

"Not in here," she had laughed.

"I don’t want to let you out of my sight."

"There’s only one door."

"Then I’ll wait."

To her surprise, he did wait and accompanied her back to her desk.

"People will talk."

"I hope so."

At lunch, she was tempted to tell him about what Charlie had said, but she deliberately left it alone. No point in wallowing in that, she told herself, although the gloomy thoughts of last night had left their impression.

"Did you think of me?" he asked, holding her hand under the cafeteria table like a high school kid.

"Of course." She returned his hand’s squeeze.

"Last weekend was the most important event of my life," he said. "I tried to analyze it, but I gave up. Something to do with the attraction of molecules."

"Don’t try."

"You think you could pencil me in for next weekend?" he asked.

Charlie’s words rushed back at her. Damn him, she thought. And what about Tray?

"I’ll try."

"Just that?"

"There’s Tray." She felt the pull of motherly responsibility.

"Bring him, too."

She looked at him, wondering if he was sincere.

"He’s five and very active."

"He’s yours, isn’t he?"

"Of course." She wondered if she sounded indignant. And Chuck’s, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

"Well, then," he said, looking at her anxiously. "Bring him."

"Maybe I can get my in-laws to take him?" No maybes about it, she thought. They would insist and there was sure to be more trouble with Charlie.

"Whatever is best for you, Frances."

"It wouldn’t be like last weekend. A small boy wants attention."

"Then we’ll give it to him."

"Easier said than done."

She watched his face go through patterns of confusion. He grew hesitant, his eyes searching hers.

"The question is, do you want to be with me this weekend?"

It was, she decided, very difficult to explain. And it hurt to see Tray as an obstacle.

"I’m a widow with a young child—" she began, knowing as she heard her words that it was the wrong way to explain it.

"I know that," he said with sudden authority. The love-struck adolescent had popped back into his turtle shell. "I know he comes with the territory, Frances. I’m prepared for that. I don’t understand the problem. He’s yours. What’s yours is important to me. So we’ll give him our attention." He hesitated and swallowed. "Like a family. I’m not stupid, Frances. If I don’t make it with him, I don’t make it with you."

She felt a sob begin deep in her chest and turned away to hide her emotions, lifting a cup of tepid coffee to her lips. Her hands shook, betraying her, and he helped her put down the cup. Then he kissed her hands.

"You don’t understand, darling. I’m in this all the way."

"You’re almost too good to be true, Peter," she whispered.

"I have my bad side," he said gently. "And I am frightened."

"Of what?"

"Of losing another round," he said quickly. Deliberately, she did not convey her own fear in that regard.

"I think we’ve both got to forget the past," she said simply. She began to feel better.

"You said it, Frances. I declare last weekend to be the first moment of our lives. Okay?" She let the question hang.

He kissed her hands again, then made a warming gesture with his own.

"So you’re booked for the weekend? You and the little guy?"

"Just give me a little more time." She made it sound cute and not standoffish.

"You got it," he winked. "Before the day is over?"

"I promise."

"I couldn’t bear to go home alone without knowing."

"Oh, you’re overdramatizing, Peter," she said good-naturedly. "It’s just that—well, I don’t want to spoil it for you."

"Aha, a martyr type."

"Or for me."

She smiled shyly.

"And that boy of yours, he does sleep," he said.

"Soundly." She felt the heat in her face.

But when Molly called later in the day to apologize for Charlie, her stomach began to churn.

"You know your father-in-law. More bark than bite. I can tell you, he’s very contrite today. He really doesn’t want to spoil anything for you, Frances. You know what he’s like. And he doesn’t want you to get so mad at him that it will hurt his relationship with Tray. So let’s let bygones be bygones."

"I don’t need any aggravation myself, Molly."

"So just file it away."

"Consider it filed."

"Next weekend we’ll have a barbecue. Maybe have some of Tray’s friends over from kindergarten. Make it a party."

"I don’t—" Somehow, she could not find the will to respond in full.

"You’ll see, Charlie won’t bat an eye. Ever again."

Fat chance, she thought bitterly.

After she hung up, she tried to concentrate on her work, but it was futile. She felt weighed down, stuffed with indignation and frustration. How dare they do this to me? she cried within herself. Without realizing it, she had brought the heel of her fist down on her desk. It was not a particularly attention-getting gesture, but Peter was watching. Sensing his gaze, she turned toward his office and managed a smile.

Then she nodded.

He pantomimed the acceptance of her message by clapping his hands soundlessly.

"I love you," his lips said.

"I need you," she responded in kind.

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