“Hey, talk to your old man,” Griffin said, because it was Harve who always brought up the war, Harve who stubbornly refused to admit it had been a mistake, Harve who loved to pronounce that the domino theory “had never been disproved,” as if the war’s detractors had failed at this, too. Besides, he thought but didn’t say, no such reconciliation was needed where his parents were concerned. As old-school lefty intellectuals, it never would’ve occurred to either of them that Asian adventurism could be anything but monumental folly. Better yet, they lived on the other side of the country, still completely involved with the continuing psychodrama of their own screwed-up lives. They neither demanded nor particularly encouraged visits. They’d never feigned any interest in children, and a grandchild was unlikely to alter that. When Griffin called to tell her Joy was pregnant, all his mother said was “So she finally got her way, then.” She. Unbelievable. By that point they’d been married for-what, seven years? And his mother still didn’t call his wife by name, just the feminine pronoun. Who could be expected to remember and use the names of people who hadn’t done graduate work? On the rare occasions when either of his parents phoned, Griffin always took the call in the den behind a closed door. “You don’t have to do that,” Joy would remind him when he emerged again, ten or fifteen minutes later, usually in a foul mood.
“No reason to inflict them on you,” he’d reply, and she’d let it go because, of course, the intended implication was all too clear. A plague on both their houses was the bargain he’d tried to drive back in Truro, and he meant to keep up his end, even if she didn’t.
The entire time Joy was pregnant, nobody had been more solicitous of her than Tommy. In honor of little Enrique (he was convinced it would be a boy) he’d quit drinking-to clean up his act, he claimed, to be worthy of his godson. Griffin remembered vividly the first time he held the baby, how reluctantly he’d handed Laura back, then turned to him and said, “Mr. Lucky.” And how right he was. Griffin had known it the moment he took his daughter from the nurse at the hospital, sensing in her ferocious, squirming little body reason enough for his own existence.
But here was the thing. Tommy had known it all along, as Joy swelled and waddled, whereas Griffin, God help him, when he looked at his pregnant wife, kept hearing his mother’s disembodied voice: So she finally got her way, then.
Yeah, it must have been around then, he decided, and who could blame her? How could Joy not feel affection for a man who’d happily drunk mineral water during her pregnancy so she wouldn’t be the only one abstaining from alcohol? Tommy’d called the house right after Griffin left for work that morning, Joy explained, and not even to speak to her, that was the ironic part. He’d heard about some writing gig he thought Griffin might be interested in. But then he’d asked her how things were going, and she’d just broken down. Her mother had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and was beginning treatments that week, and now here she was on the other side of the country, with Laura growing up fast, becoming a young woman before she’d gotten her fill of her as a child, and, well, hearing Tommy’s voice on the line had made her realize that he, not Griffin, was the one she’d really wanted to talk to about everything, Tommy who would understand the sense of loss coming at her from all directions. He’d been, it came home to her as she sobbed there in the shower, her best friend. He might have been more if she’d allowed it. Maybe she should have.
Buzz. Griffin watched the alarm clock’s minute hand turn over.
At six, he rose and slipped quietly into a pair of shorts, an old polo shirt and sandals. He was pretty sure Joy was awake, too, that she’d slept no more and no better than he had, so he wasn’t surprised when she spoke.
“Do you really have to do this now? Have you looked outside?”
“I won’t be long. Go back to sleep.”
Outside, Wellfleet was lost in dense, liquid fog. She was right, of course. The sensible thing would be to wait for it to burn off, but he was determined to disprove without further delay the most ludicrous of the charges his wife had leveled against him. By mid-morning they’d be back in Falmouth to pick up Joy’s car and head back to Connecticut, to the life they’d managed to undermine so thoroughly.
It was far too wet to put the top down, but he did it anyway, hoping he’d be less blind. By the time he inched down the mussel-shell drive into the street, the inn was completely swallowed by the fog, and his shirt collar was cold and soaked through. Somewhere in the distance he heard the lonely tolling of a buoy, but he had no idea which direction the sound was coming from.
The town dock was probably his best bet. There might be people around even this early, but anyone standing more than a few feet away wouldn’t even know he was there, much less what he was up to. This assumed, of course, that he could find the dock. But if he couldn’t, no big deal. Except for its outer tip at Provincetown, the Cape was narrowest here at Wellfleet, just a couple miles wide. You couldn’t drive very far in any direction without coming to water of some sort, an inlet or a freshwater pond. Creeping forward at a pace that barely registered on the speedometer, he squinted into the gray soup, trusting that he’d see what he was about to hit before impact. Because it would be ironic if he got in an accident while driving to scatter the ashes of a man so prone to them.
Had he ever in his life been so exhausted? Not having slept was part of it, but the quarrel itself, he knew, was what had drained him. He and Joy were no strangers to argument, of course. What couple married thirty-four years was? But usually their disputes were contained. They were about something, not everything. Yesterday’s had started out like that, focused on his wife’s admission that yes, for a time she’d been in love, or something like love, with his old friend. But that perimeter had quickly been breached by Joy’s claim that the issue between them now was about him, not Tommy. Since his father’s death nine months ago, she said, his dissatisfaction had become palpable, as was evidenced by how excited he’d become at the prospect of a screenwriting gig. What he wanted, she told him, was his old life back, to be young and free again. She understood how losing a parent could cut you loose from your moorings. She’d lost her own mother, hadn’t she? But moving back to L.A. (and that was his real intention, she insisted, next week’s visit being just the opening gambit) wouldn’t make either of them young again, nor, she was dead certain, would it make him happy.
Griffin had laughed at the notion that he was “unmoored” (or even fazed, for that matter) by his father’s passing, and though he grudgingly conceded that the notion of moving back to L.A.-getting back in the game, for Christ sake-had its attractions, he denied categorically that he harbored any illusions about the place restoring his youth. If anything, the culture out there would have the opposite effect by making him feel his age even more acutely. But did the fact they weren’t young anymore mean they had to be prematurely old? Why spend the rest of their lives in curriculum meetings and eating in the same three or four local restaurants with the same bunch of dull academics? Did they have to be so settled? Wasn’t that the same as “settling”? They’d left L.A. because of Laura, but she was an adult now. By this time next year, she’d be married. Obviously, their circumstances had changed. Couldn’t their thinking and future plans reflect this?
What would be so wrong with, say, dividing their time? This past winter had been brutal. Even Joy had to admit that. Why not keep an eye out for an apartment in L.A. where they could spend each spring semester? Okay, the college wouldn’t be thrilled by him going down to half-time, but before leaving on this trip, he’d floated the idea past the dean of faculty, who’d said that the school, rather than risk losing him entirely, would likely be flexible. Once they were back in L.A., Griffin could reestablish his contacts in the film world, and the money he’d make there would more than offset the loss of academic income. But for Joy settled wasn’t the same as settling. To her, settled just meant that they’d chosen wisely all those years ago. She happened to love the life they were living now; moreover, it was one they’d agreed on. And what would become of her full-time job when Griffin went to part-time? Was she expected to sit and watch while he had his middle-age meltdown?