David made that same ugly sound again, a combination of laughter and throat clearing. “And how come you don’t hold her responsible, huh? For what she did? A grown woman leaving a young child trapped alone in a room. Do you know what the goddamn temperatures were that week?” David’s voice rose. “It was ninety-five fucking degrees inside that goddamned apartment. That’s what I rescued you from, Anton. I rescued you from hell. From a—” David coughed, a loud, jagged fit that went on and on. “Water,” Anton heard him whisper, and the next moment there was a disturbance, and then Delores’s voice, cool and firm. “Anton? Sweetheart? What’s going on? Will someone please tell me?”
Her voice held such concern and bewilderment that Anton’s chest felt warm, as if she were once again applying Vicks to his chest the way she would when he was a boy with a cold. He was about to answer when a car passed him on the left, the driver leaning on the horn and glaring as he passed. Anton must’ve been weaving across lanes, he realized. On an impulse, he pulled onto the shoulder of the highway in order to focus on the call. “Hey, Mom,” he said wearily, dreading her reaction if he had to tell her something she didn’t know.
“Honey. What’s going on? Why’s Dad walking around the house like he’s seen a ghost?”
Anton closed his eyes and then opened them. “Because he has, Mom,” he said. And proceeded to answer her question.
There was a long, stunned silence after he was done, and just as it was beginning to feel unbearable to Anton, Delores said, “You have to answer one question honestly. Will you be able to forgive him, Anton? Will you be able to forgive us?”
The question was so purely Delores—compassionate, humble, intuitive—that Anton began to cry.
“Darling. Anton, baby. Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it. What we’ve done.” And then Delores was crying, too.
“But you didn’t . . . you didn’t do anything wrong, Mom,” Anton said. “How could you have . . .”
“Oh, but yes, I did.” Though Delores’s voice was weak, Anton heard the iron in it. “That day when he told me that poor woman . . . your . . . mom . . . had asked to be relieved of her legal rights. I knew . . . I knew something wasn’t right. It was too—convenient. Too easy. And yet I didn’t push David too hard. I didn’t dare. He looked—so happy. You made him so happy, Anton.” Delores’s voice cracked. “And he had been so unhappy for so long. After James died. It was like watching a dead man come back to life, with you in the house.” Delores stopped abruptly, and it killed Anton to imagine what she looked like in that moment. He imagined her sitting on the cherry rocker beside the phone stand, hunched with grief, dabbing her eyes, trying to control her voice and her emotions in case someone—William, probably—was nearby.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“Not in the room,” she answered. “I don’t know. And at the moment, I don’t care.”
He felt a moment’s gratitude at this linking of arms, even though he knew what it cost her to go against David. “Don’t be too hard on him, Mom,” he said. “I—I know Dad meant well. I do get that.”
“Don’t. Don’t do it, Anton.”
“Do what?”
“What you always do. Don’t make excuses for him. He’s not a saint, Anton. And he’s not a superman. Even though he’s always wanted you to believe this. He’s just a man. A good man most of the time, but just a man. It’s time you start seeing this, baby.”
“Mom, I—”
“And you’re a better man than he is. You’re . . . kinder. Softer. Maybe you get that from her. Your . . . mom. You certainly didn’t learn that warmth from us.”
He hated what she was doing, this self-flagellation, almost as much as he’d hated David’s unapologetic bravado a few minutes earlier. “You’re the warmest person I know, Mom,” he said.
Delores made a sound like she was spitting up a bitter pit. “Me? I’m six generations of Yankee, son. I think my father hugged me exactly three times in my entire life. I inherited that legendary New England reticence. We were all so obsessed with who was and who was not ‘our kind’ that we bred all the humanity out of our bloodlines.” And Delores was crying again.
“Well, you let me in,” Anton said, trying desperately to help.
Delores sighed. “We tried. We really tried. And Anton, one thing you’ve got to believe me when I tell you—we never felt that we were doing you the favor. We always knew the truth: that it was you helping us.”
“That’s not what Dad said,” Anton said quietly.
“Ignore him. He’s like an insane person right now. He doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth, Anton. The fact that you’re not out on the campaign trail is driving him nuts. You must understand.”
Why was she talking to him like he was a distant relative who had to have things explained to him? They’re both getting old, Anton thought. Dad’s illness has prematurely aged both of them. “I know, Mom,” he said. “I know. And I’ll be home soon, I promise.”
“What are you going to do?” Delores asked, and again there was this distant politeness, this formality lacing her words, as if she had already decided that Juanita had the better claim. “When you see her again, I mean?”
“I’m not sure. I honestly don’t know. I just . . . want to spend some time with her.” He wanted to add, And I never would’ve imagined how much resistance I’d run into to keep me from doing this very modest thing.
“You should bring her back,” Delores said. “With you.”
“Bring her where?”
“Home. Bring her home. With you.”
“And where would she stay, Mom?” he said carefully.
“You have a nice condo. Or. She could stay here. With us.”
The snort escaped before Anton could control it. “You want to put Dad into an early grave, Mom?”
“I see what you mean.” He could hear the smile in Delores’s voice. But then she continued, improbably, “But you said she’s been sober now for—how many years? And I bet she’s a very nice lady.”
He shook his head, smiling at the when-hell-freezes-over vision of Juanita Vesper sitting at the table in David and Delores Coleman’s well-appointed dining room. He heard the clanking of the heavy soup spoons, saw the startled, eager-to-please smile on Delores’s lips as she strove to make conversation, the quizzical look David would cast Anton’s way each time Juanita said something country or unsophisticated. He could almost picture it—the burning, acidic feeling in his stomach every time Juanita made a social gaffe, the puff of pride when she said something unexpectedly clever and David shot him an astonished look.