Early Warning

IN THEIR ROOM at the Usherton Best Western, Andy had taken the bed by the window and Frank had taken the bed by the bathroom. It was the first time they’d shared a room in a number of years, and Frank decided his best bet was to pretend to fall right to sleep, thereby avoiding any conversation. Andy said nothing about Eunice in the car; the only thing she said at all was that Arthur acted worried and Lillian looked pale and tired. In fact, she seemed in pain. Frank had thought so, too, but what business was it of theirs? The more interesting one for him was Claire, who’d come into the church flanked by two tall young men who could not be, but were, Gray and Brad. There was plenty of good news about the boys — Gray had gotten early admission to Penn; Brad was a forward on the junior varsity basketball team, and his team was in contention for the league title. Throughout the wedding and reception, they had shadowed their mother — not as if they were shy, but as if they dared not let her out of their sight. Even when two of Jenny’s cousins had come up to flirt openly, Gray kept one eye on his mother. Thinking of Jenny made Frank think of Jesse. Jesse had been quietly attentive, had asked him if he had any advice, had seemed to want to be sure that Frank was not just satisfied with Jen, but impressed by her. He wasn’t, but she was a Guthrie — Guthries were harmless. And she had hugged him with easy good nature, as if she was expressing affection rather than obligation.

Content with this small pleasure, Frank began his customary going-to-sleep ritual, which was counting backward in fives from a thousand, but around the time he got to 435, he couldn’t help coughing, which unfortunately indicated that he was awake, and when he did, Andy said, in a perfectly clear and nonsleepy voice, “Claire has grown into her looks.”

He said, “I was thinking about Claire, too.”

“I always felt sorry for her.” Her tone was even and cool.

“You did?” said Frank. He opened his eyes. The room was hardly dark at all, with the lights from the parking lot blazing on the ceiling. Frank wished they had somehow managed to fly home after the wedding, but the weather was threatening even now. There could be another night in the Best Western.

“She only married Dr. Paul because she was still in mourning for your father. But your mother didn’t like her enough to notice.”

Frank did not feel that it was his job to defend his mother — she defended herself from the grave perfectly well. However, he didn’t disagree with Andy’s assessment. Andy said, “But now I think she’s lucky.”

“Who’s lucky?”

“Claire.” Then she rustled around in her bed and said, ruminatively, “When your parents don’t like you, then you are free.”

Frank rolled onto his side and looked at her. There was so much light reflecting off the pale walls that he could see her perfectly. He said, “Your parents liked you.”

“Didn’t they, though? My father especially. But, you see, there you are.”

And he knew right then that she meant that she had never been free. That was not what he had assumed she held against him, not at all. He said, “I am sorry if you never felt free, Andy.”

Just then, lying there, staring at her across the little space between the beds, he saw how the architecture of her face remained unchanged by forty years. Her cheekbones and her jawline and her nose were a little more finely modeled, and her blue, blue eyes were a little more deeply set. Her lips were thinner, but not too thin. He laughed at Andy these days, almost as a reflex — but he had not laughed at her at the beginning. He had, in fact, been afraid of her. That was why he had taken refuge in fucking Eunice, in obsessing about Eunice even though he’d hated her, hated her somehow for Lawrence’s sake. And now Lawrence had been dead for four decades. Andy smiled, and her smile was still wide and pleasing. She said, “You did your best, Frank.” Which wasn’t much — Frank finished the thought in his own mind. Then, just to be sure that he knew she was not being ironic, she reached across the space and squeezed his hand, a reassuring, motherly squeeze. She turned away from him. Frank started his counting ritual over but lost interest at 635. After that, he lay there, looking at the lights blaring and rippling across the ceiling. Andy went to sleep, silent and still. He was always surprised at how people thought of him, surprised that they did think of him. He thought of himself as the observer, but really, he was the observed, wasn’t he? Maybe he had spent his whole life trying to escape that very thing.

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