Until then, it was funerals, which reminded me of a line from Longfellow – Let the dead Past bury its dead.

Yes, indeed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Susan came out to the rose garden, and I was observant enough to notice she’d run a brush through her hair, and maybe tweaked the lip gloss.

Gentleman that I am, I stood, and she, recalling a running joke between us, asked me, “Is someone playing the national anthem?”

We both smiled, and she set a stationery box on the table as well as the envelope I’d brought, then she sat opposite me.

As for the envelope, I didn’t want her opening it now and seeing the nude photos of herself; that might be awkward, or embarrassing, or it might send the wrong message. Or did she already look in the envelope? In any case, she left it on the table.

We both sat in silence for a few seconds, then I remembered to say, “I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

“Thank you.”

That seemed to cover the subject, so I asked the grieving widow, “What did you need to speak to me about?”

“You go first.”

“Ladies first.”

“All right. Well, I have this box for you that contains copies of some photos I thought you’d like to have. Also, I’ve found a stack of letters to us from Edward and Carolyn when they were at school, and I’ve made photocopies for you.”

“Thank you. Do you also have the canceled checks we sent them?”

She smiled and replied, “No, but I do have the thank-you notes.” She observed, “Now they e-mail, but they used to know how to write longhand.”

We both smiled.

She asked me, “What’s in that envelope?”

“Same thing. Photos, a few letters from the children. Some documents that you may want to keep.”

“Thank you.” She then informed me, “Edward and Carolyn both told me they’d be here for Ethel’s funeral.” She added, “Edward needs some lead time. He’s very busy at work. So is Carolyn, but she can get here quickly from Brooklyn.”

I remarked, “I always wanted to live long enough to see my children juggling work and family responsibilities. I can’t wait for them to get married and have kids.”

“John, you make work, family, marriage, and children sound like a punishment for something.”

“Sorry. That came out wrong. Anyway, you should keep them up to date on Ethel. I don’t have e-mail or a cell phone.”

“Do you plan to?”

“If I stay.”

She didn’t pursue that and asked me, “When was the last time you spoke to them?”

“Last Sunday. They sounded well.”

“I think they are.” She told me, “They’re happy you’re back.” She took the opportunity to inquire, “How long are you staying?”

“At least until the funeral.”

She nodded, but did not ask a follow-up question. The subject was family, so she advised me, “You should see your mother – before the funeral.”

“Do you mean hers or Ethel’s?”

“Please be serious. You should act toward your mother the way you’d want your children to act toward you. You need to set an example for them. She is their grandmother. You are her son.”

“I think I get it.”

“You need to be more of an adult.”

“I am my mother’s son, and I act as I’m treated.”

“Ridiculous.” She continued on her subject and said, “Your estrangement from your mother affects our children. I’m thinking of them.”

It’s always the children, of course, but they rarely give a damn. In any case, this was not about Harriet and me, or the children and me; it was about Susan and me.

She continued on to Point B and said, “Edward and Carolyn are also uncomfortable with your attitude toward my parents.” She reminded me, in case I missed the connection, “They are the children’s grandparents.”

“How long do you think this lecture is going to last?”

“This is not a lecture. These are important issues that need to be addressed for the sake of our children.”

I wanted to say, “They are not children any longer, and you should have thought about them ten years ago when you decided to fuck Frank Bellarosa.” Instead, I said, “All right, to the extent that I have any involvement in the lives of anyone here, I’ll try to be a better son, a better father, and a better ex-husband.”

“And hopefully, less sarcastic.”

“And for the record, I have never said anything unkind about your parents to Edward or Carolyn.”

“Maybe not… but they sense the hostility.”

“They’re very perceptive.” I added, “I don’t even think about your parents.”

She took the opportunity to give me some good news. “They’ve gotten a lot more mellow over the years.”

The only way those two would be mellow is if they had brain transplants. I said, “Then maybe it was me who brought out the worst in them.”

She ignored that and got to the conclusion of this lecture, saying, “What happened between us has impacted a lot of people around us whom we care for and who care for us, so I think we should try to be civil to each other and make life easier and less awkward for everyone.”

“It may be a little late for that.”

“No, it is not.”

I didn’t respond.

She asked me, “When are you going to let it go?”

“I’ve done that.”

“No, you have not.”

“And you have?”

“I was never angry with you, John.”

“Right. Why should you be? What did I do?”

“You should think about your role in what happened.”

“Please.”

“Then think about what you’ve done for the last ten years.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That is the point. You just ran off.”

I didn’t reply, but I glanced at my watch, and she saw this and said, “You are not leaving until I finish what I have to say.”

“Then finish.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, in a softer voice, “John, we can’t undo what happened-”

“Try that again, with a singular pronoun.”

She took a deep breath and said, “Okay… I can’t undo what happened… what I did. But I would like… I would like you to forgive me.”

I didn’t see that coming, and I was momentarily speechless. I thought about what to say, and I almost said, “I forgive you,” but instead I looked at her and reminded her, “You never even apologized. You never said you were sorry.”

She held eye contact with me, then said, “John… what I did was too great a sin to apologize for. What do I say? I’m sorry I ruined all our lives? I’m sorry I had an affair? I’m sorry I killed him? I’m sorry I didn’t go to jail to pay for what I did? I’m sorry about his wife and children? I’m sorry that it was my fault that our children have suffered, and my fault that they haven’t had you around for ten years? I’m sorry it was my fault you weren’t here when your father died? How do I apologize for all that?”

I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t look at her any longer, so I turned away, and I heard her say, “Excuse me.”

I looked back at her, but she’d stood and was walking quickly back into the house.

I sat there for a minute, feeling pretty miserable, but also feeling that this was finally coming to some sort of end.

There was a gate in the garden wall, and I looked at it, picturing myself walking through it. I could call her later, when we’d both calmed down. Or did she want me to wait here? Or follow her inside?

Women are always hard to figure out, and when they’re upset, I don’t even try. The best thing for me to do right now was to do what I wanted to do, and I wanted to leave. So I stood, took the box she’d given me, and walked toward the gate. But then I hesitated and looked back toward the house, but there was no sign of her. Apparently, the conversation was over. And that was okay, too.

I opened the gate, then I weakened again, and thought of her coming out and finding me gone. I was really torn, and my tougher side was saying, “Leave,” and my softer side was saying, “She’s hurting.”