Chapter Thirty-eight

Keller tries to be as considerate as he can be regarding Francesca and Rick’s privacy. He doesn’t eat supper with them unless asked. He takes his plate into his garage bedroom instead of eating alone at the kitchen table. He doesn’t want them to feel like they have to invite him to join them in the tight confines of Rick’s room, and if he’s sitting in the next room, it’s just too awkward for all of them. He’s a third wheel, for sure, but he’s not complaining. If Rick ever decides to come out of his room to eat, that may change. Three at a kitchen table is different. Still, he’s aware that he needs to allow them husband and wife time, time when they can feel unobserved, uninhibited. That’s another good reason to take long evening walks with Pax. Keller has signed up for an English class at Quincy College, so that will give them three afternoons a week without the presence of a star boarder in their house. Keller tries not to think about what kind of physical relationship Rick and Francesca may have. It’s none of his business. Besides, they’ve been married a long time, so maybe it’s not quite as important as it might have been. As important as it would be to him.

Betty Ann Carlin was his first. A quiet girl in his math class, completely unaware that she was very pretty behind those truly ugly spectacles. Clayton didn’t hold with a social life, so he and Betty Ann said they were staying after for extra help and instead took long walks along the beach, finding themselves nestled into the concavity of low dunes. Maybe if there hadn’t been a war, he’d have ended up marrying her; probably would have had to, the way they were going at it in the shelter of that cold sand. She never wrote to him, not even a Dear John.

Then there was the occasional war-destitute Italian girl willing to trade sexual favors for cigarettes and chocolate bars. Stateside, discharged and living with the Stantons, it’s been a long time, and Keller is finding himself thinking all too often of sex. He’s hoping that maybe he’ll meet a nice coed willing to take a chance on an older man. At twenty-three, he’s likely to be five years older than most of his incoming freshman classmates. Most of his fellow GIs will be attending the night classes, but with his odd little job, day classes make more sense. Rick needs him here at night to help him get ready for bed, to be available.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Francesca isn’t that much older than he is. Maybe it’s part of being married to a man so much older; more likely, it’s the life they have ended up with that has forced an early maturity on her—the weight of it.

Lately, he and Francesca have found a nice balance, no longer shy with each other, more relaxed and working smoothly together. He reaches for the dishes in the cupboard before she asks; she tosses him the can opener before he’s got his hand on the dog food can. Once he has Rick settled for the night and she’s been in to say good night to him, sometimes, not always, but some evenings when the weather is nice, they slip out onto the back stoop to share a lager and smoke a cigarette. They talk of other things besides Rick—light conversation about the news or the nosy neighbor who is perplexed by their living situation; whether Francesca should look into one of those freezer plans; if he should take an accounting course or test the collegiate waters with English literature. He’s told her a bit about his past; she’s talked about life in a small Iowa town and coming to the big city to find love.

*   *   *

Francesca taps at the open garage door. “I’m going to walk down to the market. Is there anything you need?” The weather has turned a bit cooler and she’s wearing a sweater set he’s never seen before. It fits so well that it makes him look away.

“How’s Rick?” Keller closes his book, ready to do whatever might need doing.

“Fine. Pax is keeping him company. He said to tell you not to go in.” She brushes a fleck from the front of her sweater.

Something about that little unconscious brushing stirs him. “Do you want me to go for you? Stay here and relax, put your feet up.”

Francesca shakes her head no. “What, and read a French novel and eat bonbons?”

“If that’s what you want to do, sure.”

She taps a knuckle on the doorjamb. “Do you want to come?”

“I can carry the bags.”

“And help me figure out what to have for dinner. I’m fresh out of ideas.”

Keller has never eaten so well. Having gone from Depression-era make-do to institutional food to bachelor cooking and back to the institutional food of the army, he finds that home-cooked is something that amazes him pretty much every day, and when beef stew cycles back into the menu, he’s as happy to see it as the very first time she made it. Roast chicken, pot roast, all manner of Iowa country-girl fare. And she seems to do it all effortlessly. Every single day.

“I tell you what. I’ll cook tonight.” Keller grabs his jacket. “The chowder I promised.”

He is rewarded with her smile. A simple gift of a smile. The heady feeling of making Francesca happy travels through Keller’s body. He’s never made anyone happy before. He follows her out of the house, a silly grin on his face, and all he wants is to do it again.

“We should let Rick know we’re both out of the house.” The smile is gone. The weight that keeps Francesca grounded is recharged. The slight alleviation of that weight has evaporated in an instant. It is constant, this inelastic attachment of her responsibility to Rick.

“I’ll go in and talk with him. If he needs me to, I’ll stay. I can give you a list of what I’ll need to make chowder.” Magically, the smile comes back. He’s taking a task off her shoulders and all he wants is to keep doing that.

*   *   *

Rick doesn’t want him, waves him out of the room. Pax whines a little, knowing by Keller’s body language that outside is going to happen. But he doesn’t move from his place beside Rick. Keller unkindly thinks that it’s because Rick has his hand on the dog’s collar, but he knows that Pax won’t leave Rick’s side during the day unless one of them orders him to. It’s uncanny, this attachment. On the day that he arrived here with Pax on the end of his official K-9 Corps leash, Keller would have bet the farm that Pax would have chosen him over Rick. Now he’s not so sure. Francesca buckled on Pax’s old civilian collar, and that old expression “A dog can’t serve two masters” is proved wrong every day. Pax has figured out a way to do it. And it’s been both challenging and fun to train him to be of use to Rick. The issue with the venetian blinds was fixed when Keller attached the rubber ball to the cord. Now all Pax has to do is grab the ball and pull. The blinds go up. A quick jab to the right and they lock in place. That was the hardest part of the exercise, and after a number of crash landings, he finally got it right.

“We won’t be long.”

“Take your time, Kel. Pax is here.” Rick tugs gently on the dog’s nape, and Pax seems to grin.

“Are you sure…”

“Keller, knock it off. I can be trusted to stay put and not get into trouble. My catheter is clear; my chair is positioned right; you’ve talked me into the radio, so I can listen to WBZ news. I’ve had lunch, dessert, and I can reach this week’s Life magazine. Go out. Take Francesca and, for God’s sake, forget the store. Take her to the picture show.” Rick shifts his weight in the chair, half-lifting himself with his good left arm. “If the house catches fire, Pax will call it in.”

Keller throws his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “Okay, okay.”

“And Keller. I mean it. She needs some fun. I know she doesn’t have any girlfriends around here, so you’re it. Show her some fun, and I don’t mean just this afternoon.”

*   *   *

“He’s fine.”

“What did he say?” She’s put a hat on, a little lozenge of a thing that nestles among her curls. “Out with it.”

“He’d like me to make sure you have some fun. More fun than going to the grocery store. Like seeing a film.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, then gathers her handbag and shakes her head. “He’s being generous. He can’t be left for that long.”

Keller shuts the door behind them. “Francesca, he thinks we treat him like a baby. And you’re what we called in the war ‘collateral damage.’ He knows that you are as trapped by that wheelchair as he is.”

“I’m his wife. I want to be with him.”

“He knows that. But, don’t you see, maybe all this attention is overwhelming. Too much of a good thing.”

Francesca spins around to face Keller. “A good thing? It’s all we’re ever going to have.”

Keller shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. It’s none of my business, except that he was adamant that I get you out of the house and show you some fun. That’s all. You’re all he has and he wants you to be happy.” Keller doesn’t offer his arm to Francesca; he keeps three feet away as they walk down the cracked sidewalk.

“That ship sailed, my friend. My happiness and his. All we can do now is take care of each other.” Abruptly, Francesca turns around and goes back to the house. Keller is left standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, wishing that he’d kept his mouth shut.