Bren woke Saturday to see the leaves of the maple outside his window drenched with a light of such purity and grace that he seemed to be looking out on the first morning of creation. He knew that he would spend not only the evening, but the entire day in Central Park, first with his father, then with his new love. What more could one ask of life? He stretched, feeling the inner contentment of one who has suffered much to arrive at a just reward. The days of rain and of what still seemed like rather unrewarding drudgery for Eli, the traumatic afternoon of the frogs—all, Bren felt, had brought him this perfect Saturday.
After a hasty breakfast, he snapped on Shadow’s leash and headed for the park. It was still early by his father’s standards, but they had a favorite place, and Bren knew he could go there and be confident that Bob would turn up. From the entrance at Eighty-first Street he turned north on a winding, hilly path and came at last to the quiet shores of the small lake near 103rd Street. Here he slipped off Shadow’s leash and watched the big dog gallop along the shore and finally dash into the water up to his chest. There were weeping willows on the margins of the lake, their green cascades now laced with chains of gold. Each tree had been a castle to Bren when he was small. Now he found a short stick and stood under a shimmering canopy to throw it again and again for Shadow until his father arrived.
Bob West came jogging in white shorts and a red shirt with an alligator on the pocket. He was carrying a large bag full of things that could be thrown and caught.
“Hey, Bren,” he said, panting to a halt under the willow tree and dumping his bag on the ground.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going? Down, Shadow, you ass!”
“Not bad. How about this weather? What did you do to deserve this?”
“Plenty,” Bren said, “but let’s not talk about that.”
“I brought a batch of stuff to throw,” his father said proudly, pointing at the bag.
Bren picked up a football and ran with it across the green field that sloped up from the lake. He threw it hard, and Bob caught it on the run and threw it back. They did this for some time to the frustration of Shadow, who ran back and forth under the ball and never managed to get his teeth into it.
“You’re getting good at this,” Bob commented when they paused for breath. “Too bad you’ll never play the rest of the game. Even if they have it wherever you go to college, it’ll be much too late to start.”
“That’s all right,” Bren said. “Believe it or not, Dad, I can live the rest of my life without having some giant knock me down in the mud and step on my face.”
“You’ve actually got a point,” his father admitted. “I never cared for it myself.”
Bren laughed. “Then why be sorry that I’m missing all that ghastly fun?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a proper, fatherly sentiment.”
“You’re weird. Let’s play something Shadow can play. He’ll never be a football player either, although he might make a good tackle. Let’s play three-cornered Frisbee.”
“You know the weakness of that idea,” Bob said, fishing the Frisbee out of the bag.
“Yeah, I know. Shadow can’t throw,” Bren said, “but he deserves a break. Come on.”
They spent the rest of the morning throwing and catching things. Bren thought it was one of the better mornings of his life.
In the early afternoon they wandered south to the shores of another lake in a part of the park where there was more to eat and drink. It had grown quite hot. Bob bought hot dogs and Cokes, and they flopped in the shade by the water.
“So how’s your mother and all the other strange ladies?” Bob asked, after a period of peaceful munching.
“Mom’s fine,” Bren said, and paused. He really didn’t want the conversation that now seemed inevitable. “They’re all fine,” he added reluctantly. “They’re a lot like they were when you saw them last except Madame Lavatky, who is happier, I think. She reached high C, or so she says. Nice for her, but a bit hard on the rest of us.”
“Your mother is a saint to put up with that screeching,” Bob said, and then laughed. “That’s a good one. Miranda the saint. I never thought of her in quite that way before.”
“She may not be a saint,” Bren said. “Who wants a saint for a mother anyway? But she does put up with a lot, and it’s a big house. Full of women,” he added bitterly.
“That’s subtle, Bren,” his father said.
“It wasn’t meant to be. Come on, Dad. I can’t believe you really like living in that beehive all by yourself.”
“When I could have such stimulating company in the House of Usher?” Bob asked. “You’d better believe I do.”
Bren was silent, staring out across the lake, thinking that his perfect day was taking a turn for the worse. Finally he muttered, “Well, I want you to come back, and so does Mom, in case you hadn’t noticed, but I guess you couldn’t care less.”
“Look, Bren,” his father said, “I love your mother, okay? Got that?” Bren nodded gloomily. “But she just doesn’t keep a tight enough ship for me. I can’t get up in the morning and find a baby bat in my shoe—one of my Gucci shoes—and then find that someone’s been monkeying with my shaving cream. My whole face turned green, for Christ’s sake, at seven o’clock in the morning.” The ghost of a smile appeared on Bren’s face and was quickly suppressed. “You think that’s funny. You should try it sometime when you’re going to breakfast with four top executives.”
“It must have been awful,” Bren said.
“Awful doesn’t begin to describe it. Childish. Maddening. But if that kind of thing only happened once in a while, I could put up with it. I have put up with it. Sixteen years I put up with a house full of weird smells and weird sounds and creepy animals turning up in unexpected places. Do you know what I found in my shirt drawer the day I left my hearth and home for good?” Bren nodded, but Bob paid no attention. “A goddamned python,” he said. “That’s what I found. It makes for marital wear and tear, Bren. I can’t put it any more plainly than that.”
“I think she might try to be more considerate,” Bren said, “if—you know…” He let the sentence trail away.
“She might,” Bob conceded. “But even if she reformed, there’d still be the grim old lady with the crystal ball, the squalling of the mad Bulgarian, lovely Louise, and loathsome Luna.”
Bren took the last swallow of his Coke and tossed the can into the trash basket. “I guess I understand,” he said. “At least a bit better than I used to. I’m looking forward to some similar troubles myself, as a matter of fact.”
“You are? How come? I thought you were all adjusted to the madhouse. You ought to be by now.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a question of having friends to the house,” Bren said. “You can imagine.”
“Can I ever,” Bob said, and then with growing comprehension, “Oh, Lord, girlfriends! You poor kid. You really could have a problem there.”
“Let your imagination roam,” Bren said. “Conjure up a few pictures of what could happen. That’s what I’ve been doing, and each new scenario is more gruesome than the last.”
“You’ve met someone?” his father asked cautiously. “Someone you would theoretically like to bring home?”
“It’s not so much that I’d like to bring her home,” Bren explained. “It’s that I don’t see any way out of it. She’s hopelessly curious, which is one of the things that makes her so neat, and we live so close to each other. Apart from telling her the whole house is infected with smallpox, I really can’t think of an excuse.”
“I’ll put my mind to the problem,” Bob promised. “After all, it’s not as if I lack experience. Young executives with large houses are expected to entertain. Remember the time those two senior vice presidents and their wives came to dinner?”
Bren shook his head. “I was at camp, but I heard rumors when I came home.”
“Your mother, to be fair, tried quite hard,” Bob went on, “and looked absolutely gorgeous. We cleared out the fortunetelling stuff, and Rose actually stuck to her cooking and did one of her better things, grumbling and casting black looks, but nothing beyond what a slightly eccentric old lady might do. Luna was locked in the studio. The salamander was evicted from the bathtub. Madame was persuaded not to practice for one night. The only uncontrollable factor was Louise, and of course, where there’s a weak link in a chain, that’s where it’s going to snap.”
“You can’t influence Louise,” Bren said. “She’s a force of nature.” He had heard this story before, but never from his father’s point of view.
Bob proceeded with gloomy relish. “All went well until we were gathered in the living room for coffee—all nice and genteel and boring as hell, I have to admit, but still, just the way I wanted it to be. Then the door bangs open and there’s our friend in full fig—purple dashiki, orange turban all covered with those funny signs. To make it worse, she decides to go into an Aunt Jemima routine: ‘Oh, Missy West. Ah sho’ is sorry. If Ah’d knowed you all had company, Ah nevah would come in like this.’ Your mother now makes a fatal mistake and puts on her gracious monarch turn: ‘Never mind, Louise, dear,’ she says, ‘but perhaps whatever it was could wait?’ ‘Wait it cannot,’ cries Louise—the black queen challenging the white queen. ‘The spell be wound, the fire burns, the twin smokes rise, and not a pinch of henbane do I have. But don’t you stir, my lady. Just give me the key to your cupboard, and I’ll fetch it myself.’ ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ your mother says and marches dear Louise right out the door. Unfortunately, the damage had been done, and when there was an opening farther up in the company, those two VPs were strangely reluctant to consider me.”
“Awful,” Bren said, “but only money and a job. I’ve got a girl, or at least I think I do.”
His father laughed and scrambled to his feet. “Play it by ear, Bren,” he said. “Just play it by ear, old son. That’s what I always had to do.”