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Authors: John Darnton
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he wanted to leave.
“Why didn’t you answer my letter?” she asked.
For a moment he thought of pretending he hadn’t received it. But that kind of lie never worked with her; she would see through it and just go barreling ahead as if it wasn’t worth acknowledging.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to go over the whole thing. I didn’t want to think about it, I guess.”
“So you went off to be by yourself and stare out at the ocean. That’s a good way to take your mind off things.”
“Yes, well, in any case, it didn’t work.”
“I would think not.”
He decided to change the subject. “What’s he like—your husband?”
“Erik. And he’s very smart. He works in the City and we have a flat in Elgin Crescent.”
“I see. Kids?”
“No.”
“And you—do you work?”
“Life of leisure,” she said, sitting back and rubbing her ring with her thumb. It was a false gesture, pretending at some bourgeois compromise, and she played it that way. A silence set in and he resolved not to break it. After half a minute, she spoke.
“And your father. How is he?”
“He’s remarried.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“A good woman, or so it seems. Kathy. They’ve been married about three years now.”
“No kidding. That’s amazing. He’d been single for years, ever since . . . how long ago did your mother leave?”
“A long time. I was a teenager.”
“And how do you get on with Kathy?”
“Okay, not bad. I don’t spend much time with them. They seem good together, but I can’t say it’s really changed him.”
“He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of man.”
“No. But he’s stayed on the wagon. He seems to be making an effort to get engaged in things now, including with me. I think Kathy’s pushing him in that direction. He kept pressing me to go back to school. So I got into this evolutionary biology, partly to get him off my back, and then ended up liking it.”
Hugh didn’t say what he was thinking—that his father had made some kind of peace with the past and “moved on,” as Bridget would put it, but that he still believed his father had never forgiven him and undoubtedly never would. Certain things you just don’t get over.
He could see that Bridget had something on her mind. She leaned across the table toward him and spoke in a low, intimate tone.
“Hugh, there are some things that even you don’t know about. I don’t know if you even should know, but it might help. It might make everything a bit easier.”
“Bridget, for Christ’s sake. Could you be a little less cryptic?”
“No, I can’t. But maybe you should just be open to thinking about things in a different way.”
“What the hell does that mean? Bridget, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
“Maybe sometime. Let me think about it.”
“Have it your way.” He put down his glass and stood up. “I’ve really got to go—sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be playing games. I’m not—I hope you realize that. All this is too important.”
“Sure. I guess. But I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
He paid the tab and by the time they reached the door, she was a flurry of resolution. She insisted on taking his phone number, and he found it on a piece of paper in his pocket—the rooming house in Cambridge—and read it aloud as she punched it into a PalmPilot. She said she was going to invite him for dinner.
“Promise you’ll come.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to see.”
On the sidewalk, she leaned over to kiss him, both cheeks, saying how glad she was that they had bumped into each other, and then she turned abruptly and walked down the street, her heels clicking against the pavement. He thought she looked broader across the hips and wondered fleetingly if she was pregnant.
What would it have been like, he thought, if she was carrying my brother’s child? What would their children have been like? All that powerful DNA conjoining, his brilliance and her
“Why didn’t you answer my letter?” she asked.
For a moment he thought of pretending he hadn’t received it. But that kind of lie never worked with her; she would see through it and just go barreling ahead as if it wasn’t worth acknowledging.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to go over the whole thing. I didn’t want to think about it, I guess.”
“So you went off to be by yourself and stare out at the ocean. That’s a good way to take your mind off things.”
“Yes, well, in any case, it didn’t work.”
“I would think not.”
He decided to change the subject. “What’s he like—your husband?”
“Erik. And he’s very smart. He works in the City and we have a flat in Elgin Crescent.”
“I see. Kids?”
“No.”
“And you—do you work?”
“Life of leisure,” she said, sitting back and rubbing her ring with her thumb. It was a false gesture, pretending at some bourgeois compromise, and she played it that way. A silence set in and he resolved not to break it. After half a minute, she spoke.
“And your father. How is he?”
“He’s remarried.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“A good woman, or so it seems. Kathy. They’ve been married about three years now.”
“No kidding. That’s amazing. He’d been single for years, ever since . . . how long ago did your mother leave?”
“A long time. I was a teenager.”
“And how do you get on with Kathy?”
“Okay, not bad. I don’t spend much time with them. They seem good together, but I can’t say it’s really changed him.”
“He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of man.”
“No. But he’s stayed on the wagon. He seems to be making an effort to get engaged in things now, including with me. I think Kathy’s pushing him in that direction. He kept pressing me to go back to school. So I got into this evolutionary biology, partly to get him off my back, and then ended up liking it.”
Hugh didn’t say what he was thinking—that his father had made some kind of peace with the past and “moved on,” as Bridget would put it, but that he still believed his father had never forgiven him and undoubtedly never would. Certain things you just don’t get over.
He could see that Bridget had something on her mind. She leaned across the table toward him and spoke in a low, intimate tone.
“Hugh, there are some things that even you don’t know about. I don’t know if you even should know, but it might help. It might make everything a bit easier.”
“Bridget, for Christ’s sake. Could you be a little less cryptic?”
“No, I can’t. But maybe you should just be open to thinking about things in a different way.”
“What the hell does that mean? Bridget, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
“Maybe sometime. Let me think about it.”
“Have it your way.” He put down his glass and stood up. “I’ve really got to go—sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be playing games. I’m not—I hope you realize that. All this is too important.”
“Sure. I guess. But I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
He paid the tab and by the time they reached the door, she was a flurry of resolution. She insisted on taking his phone number, and he found it on a piece of paper in his pocket—the rooming house in Cambridge—and read it aloud as she punched it into a PalmPilot. She said she was going to invite him for dinner.
“Promise you’ll come.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to see.”
On the sidewalk, she leaned over to kiss him, both cheeks, saying how glad she was that they had bumped into each other, and then she turned abruptly and walked down the street, her heels clicking against the pavement. He thought she looked broader across the hips and wondered fleetingly if she was pregnant.
What would it have been like, he thought, if she was carrying my brother’s child? What would their children have been like? All that powerful DNA conjoining, his brilliance and her
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