Son of Destruction

43




Bobby


The sun is over the yardarm, always a bad time for Bob Chaplin, Goldman Sachs. There will be no drinking, but his hands shake and his mouth waters every evening just about this time. His brother and sister are no help. Margaret’s trotting around upstairs, pray God she isn’t planning another of her Sunday night suppers, and Al is off at his favorite bar, leaving Bobby alone to replay tapes in his head – all those lost conversations, old and recent – with no way to rewrite them and nothing to take his mind off it. He won’t call friends. He found out last night that it really has been too long. He loves Von Harten and Coleman but they have their own problems, and after seeing his designated best friend up close last night he remembers what he always knew. Bellinger was never his friend, not really.

No problem. He’s used to being alone. He’ll be fine.

He is surprised and grateful when the doorbell rings. ‘Nenna! This is nice.’

‘Are you busy?’ She’s holding a basket covered by a checkered dishtowel with that freshly washed look, as if it just came out of the drier. She looks pretty in the creeping dusk, maybe a little shaky but hopeful. ‘I made too many corn muffins this morning, I hope you like . . .’

‘I just started a pot of coffee.’ Bobby is hopeful too.

‘I hope you don’t think it’s too late for . . .’

He lifts a corner of the cloth and peeks in, quick to reassure her. ‘They look great. Hey, Margaret brought orange blossom honey back from Homosassa Springs. Would you like . . .’

‘I’d love to.’ She smiles. ‘Can I come in?’

Her smile makes him smile. But, this house! He covers quickly. ‘It’s too pretty out to be stuck inside.’

‘The light really is beautiful at this time of day.’

He walks her around to the picnic table. ‘Let’s sit out here.’

‘Let’s do.’

‘Wait here, I’ll bring a tray.’

He likes the way she scoots her legs over the bench and sits. Bobby notes that unlike the girls when he knew them back in high school, Nenna does not jump up and offer to help, which is the Fort Jude way. She seems to know that he’d find it intrusive. When she had him at the front door she didn’t try to push her way inside. Maybe she knows he’d rather not have her nosing around in there feeling sorry for him, he thinks, going into Margaret’s dim kitchen.

She doesn’t need to see how he lives, which . . . yes!

Which he is going to change. Apartment down town, he’ll gentrify a neighborhood. Fresh resume; he’ll add a line that says consultant to explain the gap. With his credentials, he can get a new job.

Bobby collects coffee cups and the full pot, sugar bowl and two spoons, butter and two butter knives, honey with its wooden dipstick, proof against drips. Two of his mother’s Minton dessert plates. He works quietly because he doesn’t want to bring Margaret downstairs. He’s rather not hurt her feelings – which he would, if she found the tray and asked him to explain. When he comes back outside Nenna is waiting nicely in the twilight, sitting there with her head bent, like a child. He sets down the tray. ‘I’m sorry it took so long.’

‘This is so nice!’ She smiles.

‘I’m glad.’

She breaks one of the muffins and puts it on a plate. She butters the halves, drizzling them with honey and pushing the plate across the table. ‘Here, this one’s for you.’

‘Wonderful.’ Soberly, he pours the coffee, setting the first cup down in front of her. ‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks, Bobby, I’m fine. Nice to see you.’

‘You too.’

She is sitting there fishing for thoughts. Surprised by what surfaces, she laughs. ‘And let’s don’t talk about our problems!’

Bobby grins. ‘Let’s don’t.’

‘It’s just so nice to see you.’

He jumps up. ‘I forgot napkins!’

‘Don’t worry, we’re fine.’

‘I guess we are.’

She says, ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

They are both smiling now. Bobby says, ‘We do.’