The Paternity Test: A Novel

Twenty-four

247 twenty-four The bus back to Hyan­ nis was ­ sold-out with sum­ mer travel­ ers; by the time I ­ boarded only one seat was avail­ able: in the last row, up ­ against the bath­ room. If the bus had ­ air-conditioning, it ­ didn’t reach this far, or not ­ enough to counter­ act the ­ steamy bod­ ily odors that es­ caped every time the bath­ room ­ opened. For six over­ heated hours, I was ­ wedged­ between the wall and a ­ slumped, doz­ ing woman—my meta­ phor­ i­ cal sweat­ box of ­ self-blame ­ brought to life. From ­ Joseph’s I had ­ called Stu and said again how sorry I was. Told him I was ready to make ­ things right. “Oh?” he’d said. “Make ­ things right? ­ Uh-huh.” As he spoke, I’d heard him doing some­ thing—chop­ ping veg­ e­ ta­ bles? I en­ vi­ sioned him cook­ ing din­ ner for one.­ Wouldn’t we hear from De­ bora soon, I asked, with test re­ sults?­ Shouldn’t I be home for that? ­ Shouldn’t we be to­ gether? I hoped he was hear­ ing some­ thing new in my voice, more hon­ est. In ­ Joseph’s heat, I had tried to burn off the im­ pur­ ities. “Stu, I want to be with you,” I said. Thunk thunk thunk, his knife kept com­ ing down. A dead­ ened sound, hard but also hol­ low. At last there was a pause. Stu ex­ haled de­ lib­ er­ ately. “If you want, fine,” he said. “Come back.” 248 The bus now ap­ proached the ­ bridge to bring us to the Cape, pass­ ing a big ­ blue-lettered sign: “Des­ per­ ate? Call the Sa­ mar­ i­ tans.” As a boy, I had found this sign—its lo­ ca­ tion—baf­ fling. Why here, of all ­ places, would any­ one feel dis­ tressed? For me, the ­ bridge to the Cape was an­ all-but-holy pas­ sage, the entry point to a fun, un­ fet­ tered world. (My par­ ents had in­ struc­ tions that if I had fal­ len ­ asleep on the drive, I was to be woken when we ­ crossed it.) Today, ­ though, I bet­ ter under­ stood a­ jumper’s im­ pulse. To stare from on high to­ ward the dark, un­ judg­ ing water; to leap into an end­ less end of guilt . . . Soon we ­ reached Hyan­ nis. I was the last one off: ­ clammy, ­ bleary, mouth and mus­ cles stale. I stum­ bled from the sta­ tion, look­ ing for a taxi, pray­ ing there might still be one un­ claimed. Then I heard, “You’re going the wrong di­ rec­ tion. Over here.” There was Stu, lean­ ing back ­ against the ­ Volvo’s hood. Look­ ing a lit­ tle rum­ pled—un­ sha­ ven, in ­ shorts and tank top—but still, to me, as strik­ ing as he would have been in uni­ form. His deep, com­ mand­ ing eyes. His crew cut, with its re­ cent stars of gray ­ around the side­ burns. I was used to being the one who ­ waited for his re­ turn. All those years of fight­ ing off the lone­ li­ ness and jeal­ ousy, try­ ing not to fret about his ab­ sence. But now, here he was, after every­ thing, fetch­ ing me. Col­ lect­ ing me at the sta­ tion was the ­ phrase that came to mind. As if I had been scat­ tered into ­ pieces, then gath­ ered up. “Thanks,” I said. “I ­ didn’t ex­ pect . . .” He ­ shrugged. “Why waste money on a cab?” He of­ fered noth­ ing more ef­ fu­ sive than that as we drove off. He­ steered us si­ lently home with one stiff arm. The cot­ tage ­ smelled of vac­ uum­ ing, of dusty ag­ i­ ta­ tion. The liv­ ing room ­ chairs ­ looked re­ po­ si­ tioned by two or three de­ grees. We both stood there, seem­ ingly in fear of im­ po­ lite­ ness but not know­ ing what po­ lite­ ness­ called for. I had long ad­ mired Stu’s pose of calm, his ­ airman’s train­ ing: ­ Buckle up your seat belts, folks; ­ stormy skies ahead; head­ ing for a safer al­ ti­ tude. But now I was wish­ ing he would strip the seat belts off, for once, and fling us into the tur­ bu­ lence, and feel this. [3.149.250.1] Project MUSE (2024-04-26...