Tempted. Megan Hart

downstairs. We’ll have a late lunch. It’s almost four o’clock. What time do you have to be home?”

      I didn’t have to be home at any time. Alex had left the house early that morning with mention of seeing some people about projects that hadn’t been my business, and James had gone to work. I expected him home around six, but I didn’t have to be there when he walked in the door.

      “I should leave soon. I have time for a sandwich. I think we might be going out to eat, later, when James and Alex both get home.”

      My mother, however, had the long-time habit of being home when my father got home. This was a useless attempt at restricting his drinking; if she could keep him occupied with household tasks for a while before he settled into the easy chair, he might drink less. Or, he might not. The futility of the effort didn’t seem to keep her from trying.

      I didn’t want to be here, however, when my dad got home. There would be much joviality on his part and much tension on mine as I counted the number of times he refilled his glass of “iced tea,” each time adding more whiskey and less tea. Once, as children, Patricia and I had hidden the tea bags. We thought if there was no tea, there’d be no special ingredient, either. It hadn’t worked.

      “Oh, James’s friend’s still there? How long is he planning on staying?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      I followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the ceiling fan stirred the air into a semblance of cool. It hadn’t changed much, that kitchen. The same daisies nodded on the wallpaper and the same yellow curtains hung at the windows. My mother had talked a lot about redecorating, but I suspected the enormity of choosing a new paint color, new fabric for window treatments, new potholders, had proven too much for her. We tried, sometimes, the four of us, to encourage her. But what did I care if my mother never changed the pattern on her walls? I hadn’t lived in that house since I was eighteen; if God was good I’d never have to live there again.

      “Is he nice? Do you like him?” She pulled out plates, bread, lunchmeat, mustard. A jar of pickles.

      I grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry. “He’s nice. Sure. But he’s not my friend, he’s James’s.”

      “That doesn’t mean he can’t be yours.”

      My mother had befriended my father’s buddies, opening the house to poker games and football-watching parties. Backyard picnics. She claimed as friends the wives of these men my dad brought home, but they only seemed to get together with their husbands in tow. No luncheons or shopping trips, no ladies’ night at the movies. Those things she did with her sister, my aunt Kate, if she did them at all. The rest of it was an attempt at keeping him home. If he was home, he wasn’t out driving over someone’s dog. Or their child.

      “He’s only staying for a little while,” I told her. “Until he gets his new business started.”

      “What does he do?” My mom looked up from the mustard she was slathering on her bread.

      “I … he had some sort of transportation business in Singapore.” That was all I knew.

      My mom finished making the sandwiches and reached for her leatherette cigarette case. Most smokers had brand loyalty, but my mom usually bought whatever was cheapest. Today they came in a plain white pack that looked sort of like a deck of playing cards. I didn’t bother asking her not to light up, though I did reach to pull my plate far out of the way.

      “Singapore, oh, that’s very far away.” She nodded and lit her cigarette, drew in smoke, let it out. “How long did you say James knew him?”

      “Since eighth grade.” Suddenly ravenous, I fell to the sandwich with gusto, adding a handful of crispy chips to my plate. They were kettle-cooked, the sort I never bought at home because I tended to finish the entire bag in front of an especially good movie marathon.

      There’s no place like home. Ain’t that the truth? Home for me would always be the smells of cigarettes and cheap hairspray, and the taste of greasy, kettle-cooked chips. I suddenly felt weepy, all at once, my emotions as much of an up-and-down roller coaster as the ride I’d taken with Alex the day before.

      My mother, bless her, didn’t seem to notice. We had a lot of practice avoiding the discussion of sadness. I think maybe it had become habit for her to talk over the sound of surreptitious sniffles. She chattered on about some movie she’d watched and a cross-stitch pattern she was intending to try. I got myself under control by concentrating on finishing my sandwich, but it was time for me to go.

      I wasn’t fast enough. The back door slammed, the way it had done a hundred thousand times when I was a kid. I heard the clump of heavy boots.

      “I’m hooooooome,” boomed the voice of my father.

      “Dad’s here,” my mother said, unnecessarily.

      I stood. He came into the kitchen. His eyes were already red, his smile broad, his forehead sweating. He held out his arms to me and I went obediently, no choice but to suffer the embrace. He smelled like sweat and liquor, like maybe he sweated booze now. I wouldn’t have been surprised.

      “How’s my girl?” My dad, Bill Byrne, stopped himself from knuckling my head … but only barely.

      “Fine, Dad.”

      “Staying out of trouble?”

      “Yes, Dad” was my dutiful answer.

      “Good, good. What’s for dinner?” He looked at my mother, who looked almost guiltily at our plates.

      “Oh … are you hungry?” She began cleaning the mess like she was destroying evidence. She’d cook him a full dinner even if she wasn’t hungry herself.

      “What do you think?” He grabbed for her, and she giggled, flapping her hands at him. “Annie, you staying for dinner?”

      “No, Dad. I’ve got to get home.”

      “Bill, she’s got to get home, of course.” My mother shook her head. “She’s got James waiting for her. And a guest. Alex … what did you say his name was?”

      “Kennedy.”

      My dad looked up. “Not John Kennedy’s boy.”

      I laughed. “No, Dad. I don’t think so.”

      “Not John Kennedy the president,” my father said. “John Kennedy who’s married to Linda.”

      “I don’t really know.” Leave it to my dad to think he knew Alex’s parents.

      “Ah, well. Doesn’t matter. What’s he doing in your house?”

      “He’s James’s friend,” my mother put in quickly as she pulled the makings of dinner from the freezer. “He’s come for a visit. He’s been in Singapore.”

      “Yeah, that’s John’s boy, then.” My dad looked satisfied with himself, like he’d sleuthed the answer to some great mystery. “Alex.”

      It was useless to point out I’d already told him his name. “Yes. You know his dad, huh?”

      My father shrugged. “I see him around sometimes.”

      Around. I knew what that meant. At the bars.

      “He’s James’s friend,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “He’s just staying for a little while.”

      “But you got to get back to him, I get it. Go on. Go.” My dad waved a hand. “Get out of here.”

      My dad opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass. Another cupboard gave up the bottle. I loved my parents, both of them, but I couldn’t stay to watch. I made my goodbyes and stole away the photos of them in their youth, leaving them to what they’d made of their lives.

       Chapter 05

      Alex