Claire never told my fiancée about Lila. With the notable exceptions of my slipping my tongue down a half-Armenian Mormon’s throat and Vagina Head’s continued courtship of my mother, it’s been a blissful few months.
Beth graduated from Illinois at the end of May. That same month, we signed a lease on a house in Rocky Ripple, an incorporated river town of hippies just northeast of Butler’s campus. I was promoted from assistant editorial director to editorial director at College Avenue Press, and Beth got a job teaching gymnastics at a private club after her first day at the hospital confirmed everything she hated about clinicals: being around death isn’t for her. Beth’s dad still isn’t over the quitting nursing thing, but her mom is so supportive of the whole living-in-sin arrangement she helped us move. Being the devout, condoms-and-cohabitation-for-everyone, Vatican II Catholic that she is—not to mention too hopped up on narcotics to give a shit—my mother of course gave us the hearty thumbs up.
Beth has her face buried in one of her five hundred wedding magazines. I’m trying to wrap up a phone conversation with Hatch, about a third of which Beth hears thanks to Hatch’s booming voice that dominates conversations even from the other end of a telephone line.
“If you need anything, call me,” I say.
Beth puts down her magazine. “Don’t know what you were talking about, but it sounded ominous. What’s up with Hatch?”
I hang up the phone. “You don’t want to know.”
“Sure I do,” Beth says, her curiosity genuine. Somehow, she and Hatch have become civil acquaintances if not friends.
“Apparently, Hatch went on a bender after we got engaged and I broke the lease on our apartment. He said he pretty much bottomed out the night he went bar-hopping in downtown Indy and woke up the next day in Buckhead not knowing how he got there.”
“Buckhead? As in Atlanta, Georgia?”
I nod. “He woke up in a strange woman’s bed, went out for some air, and actually said to her, ‘When did Indianapolis get so fucking humid?’”
“Jesus.”
“But wait, it gets better. Hatch gets in his car and then drives back to Indy and straight into rehab.”
“Rehab?” Beth says. “What kind of rehab?”
“AA,” I answer. “He’s been clean and sober for six months.”
“Six months? And this is the first you’ve heard of it?”
“I told you we had lost touch.”
“But six months? If it was my friend, I’d have been worried.”
“We’re dudes,” I say. “Most of our mistakes come down to the fact that we just don’t pay attention.”
Beth puts down her wedding magazine. “You know what? Good for Hatch. We should throw a party for him to celebrate.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s not gonna happen.”
“It’ll be fun, Hank. No booze. Just some good movies and good friends.”
“I can already tell you Hatch won’t be able to make it,” I say.
“Why?” Beth says.
“Hatch enlisted in the Navy.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“Finished the twelve-step program and then went straight to boot camp. Says he’s hoping to get sent to Bangkok and check out some Thai hookers.”
“Now that sounds more like Hatch,” Beth says, sorting through the pounds of wedding-related parcels on our coffee table.
“How many invites we get back?”
“Most of them,” Beth says.
“How many are coming?”
“Most of them.” She holds a nearly square envelope up to the ceiling lights, trying to see through it. “Hey, what’s this?”
“What’s what?”
“A letter addressed to you,” Beth says. “No return address. Looks like a wedding invitation or something. Anyone we know getting married?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Open it.”
Beth opens the envelope. She removes the card, reads it aloud. “Dear Mr. Fitzpatrick, thank you for your condolences. Regards, Tammy Elliot and Laura Powell.”
“What?” I say. “That’s all it says?”
“Who are Tammy Elliot and Laura Powell?”
“That’s fucking bullshit!”
“Uh, Hank?” Beth raises her hand. “Remember me? Your fiancée here, a little concerned about her soon-to-be husband being all cryptic about a card from two mystery women.”
“Sorry,” I say, I grabbing the card from Beth in disbelief. “No mystery here. Powell is Laura’s married name. Tammy is her mother.”
“Laura Elliot? Your ex-girlfriend?”
“Whatever,” I say, handing Beth the note. “It’s no big deal.”
“Condolences?”
“Arthur died of a heart attack a couple weeks ago.”
“Laura’s father?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. And I wrote her what I thought was a pretty nice letter. I told her I knew what she was going through and said she could call me anytime to talk about it. I told her what a good man Arthur was and how I thought he would have been an awesome grand…”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I say, catching myself. “You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because I didn’t tell you about the letter. I sure as hell felt guilty about it.”
“She used to be an important part of your life, Hank. And now she’s going through something you have a uniquely personal perspective on. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t write her a thoughtful letter.”
“Really?”
“Hank, your ex-girlfriend sent you a generic thank you card. So what? Where was your head at when your dad died?”
“There’s more to it than that, Beth.”
“Then what is it about?”
I want to tell Beth that Laura is more than an ex-girlfriend. She was more than just my first love. She’s the spurned mother of my first-born son, like that Virgin Mary statue all Catholic boys treasure for the first decade of their lives only to stash away once they hit puberty and religion becomes spectacularly uncool. In the two years since Laura and Mom told me I was my brother’s father, I’ve mailed Laura three large envelopes stuffed with pictures of Jack and some of his drawings from school. She never wrote me back until today. Laura has always worn guilt well.
“Can we sit down for a second?” I say. “I need to tell you something. You deserve to know before we get married.”
“Sure,” Beth says.
We walk into the living room and sit down on the couch. Beth reaches over and grabs my hand. “Hank, I—”
“Please, let me finish before I chicken out.”
“But I—”
“I told Laura in the letter that I always thought Arthur would have been an awesome grandfather.”
“That’s a sweet to thing to say, given what you and Laura went through.”
“You mean the abortion?”
“Should I mean anything else?”
“Yeah, about that. See, the thing is, that’s not exactly how it all went down. When I talk about Arthur being an awesome grandfather, I’m not speaking metaphorically. There’s no easy way for me to say this, so here it goes.”
Beth is still holding my hand. I look at the analog clock on the wall. The second hand ticks menacingly. My throat starts to close.
“Laura faked her abortion,” I say, finally. “She carried her baby to term, and then my mother secretly adopted the baby. My brother, Jack, is actually—”
“Your son,” Beth says. “I know.”
I stand up, shake her hand loose. “Excuse me?”
“A part of me has always known, or at least suspected. The way you look at him, the way you act around him. Your paternal instinct just kicks in. You can’t help yourself.”
“Beth, being fatherly is a long way from being a father. There’s no way you could have known unless—”
“Your mom told me.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did and she didn’t.”
“Huh?”
“Remember last fall when you were at the book fair in New York?”
“Vaguely.”
“And I called telling you I went out to dinner with your mother and she had a bad reaction to her medication.”
“Rings a bell,” I say. “Was that the time she chased three Class IV Narcotics with a vodka gimlet?”
Beth nods. “Bingo.”
“You said she signed her home address instead of her name on her credit card bill and that she started—”
“Speaking in tongues. Exactly.”
“And I take it you understood at least some of what she was saying?”
“It was all slurred gibberish at first. The restaurant manager almost called an ambulance. But eventually I got her stabilized with a little food and water. I got her back home, put her in bed, and that’s when she started becoming a little more lucid. When I was tucking her in she said to me, ‘Beth, I always knew you’d be a better mother for Jack.’”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I told her I could never replace her as Jack’s mother. And then she put her hand on my face and said, ‘I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Jack’s real mother, Laura.’”
“And then what happened?”
“She passed out.”
“I’m so sorry, Beth.” I sit back down on the couch, grab my fiancée’s hands. I raise them to my lips and kiss them. “Why didn’t you say anything to me after you found out?”
“I had no way of knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
“If you even knew,” Beth says. “And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one who told you.”
“So you’re not mad at me?”
“Well, of course I’m a little upset you didn’t trust me enough to tell me earlier, but I can’t fault you for keeping it from me. The fewer people who know, especially in a gossipy town like Empire Ridge, the less chance there is it gets back to Jack. You need to tell him on your terms. I get that.”
“And if the day comes when he lives under our roof as my son?”
“Then I’ll welcome our son into our home with open arms. Hell, I’d do the same for Jack even if he were your brother. That’s what you do for people you lo—”
I cut her last sentence off. When all else fails, kissing a girl shuts her up faster than anything else.
Beth’s lips purse around my own. She relaxes, backs away. “Like I said, I don’t want you feeling guilty about writing a letter to Laura. This is the type of crap married couples or very nearly married couples are supposed to talk to each other about.”
“So you’re giving me permission to write letters to ex-girlfriends behind your back?”
“I didn’t say that.” Beth puts her wine down, points to our bedroom door.
“What?” I say.
“Get in that room right now, smartass!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to tie you up, rip your clothes off, and then proceed to punch you in the balls a few hundred times.”
“If you don’t mind,” I say, “I’d just settle for a cold, dispassionate grudge fuck at my expense.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Like I said, with the notable exceptions of my slipping my tongue down a half-Armenian Mormon’s throat, Vagina Head’s continued courtship of my mother, and telling my fiancée I have a secret love child, it’s been a blissful few months. As Beth throws me on the bed, strips me naked, ties me up with four silk scarves, and drizzles hot candle wax onto my nipples, I feel like everything is going to be okay. There’s no way I’m fucking things up.