Anne Tyler - If Morning Ever Comes

She took a hanger from the closet for his coat, and Ben Joe went into the living room. A fire had been lit in the fireplace, a tall fire that roared out and glinted on the bare wood floor. The thought of having to go out again, away from all this warmth, was depressing. But as soon as Shelley came into the living room he turned and said, “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Oh, I don’t care. What do you want to do?”

“Well, anything you want to.”

“No, you say.”

He spread his hands helplessly. “You say,” he said.

“I really don’t have a preference in this world, Ben Joe.”

“You must have.”

“Oh …” She put her hands together and stared into the fire. “I hate to be the one to say,” she said finally.

The fire light kept moving and flickering on her face. And her hair just brushed the top of her collar. Something about her — the expectant way she stood, the dress-up navy dress with its spotless white collar — reminded him of a night he thought he had forgotten, back when his sisters were still very young. Joanne had thrown a barbecue party, with what seemed like millions of couples, and had suggested offhandedly that anyone in the family could have some barbecue with them if they wanted to. At the time Jenny was no more than eleven, but she was just beginning to notice boys and had started reading beauty magazines. The night of the barbecue the whole house reeked of some heavy-scented bath oil and no one knew why; but then down the stairs came Jenny, wearing a white puff-sleeved dress, with her hair perfectly combed and a thick envelope of perfume encircling her wherever she moved. She had come down and sat quietly on the lawn with the older couples, who were in sloppy Bermudas and T shirts, and she hadn’t spoken unless spoken to, but all evening she watched the party with that same happy, frightened look. He had wanted to cry for her, without knowing why — or at least hug her. He wanted to hug Shelley now, but she had awakened from her staring into the fire and was watching him.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I tell you. One thing I do know about New York is that when they have dates they like as not never set foot in a movie house or a skating rink. The girls just serve them cocktails in their apartments. So I have bought some bourbon, in case that’s what you’re used to doing. Is that all right?”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Ben Joe said.

She ran out to the kitchen immediately; for some reason she didn’t seem to be in slow motion tonight. Ben Joe sat down on the couch and relaxed happily against the cushions. The fire was slowly drawing the cold out of him, leaving him warm and comfortable. He could hear glasses tinkling in the kitchen.

“I’ve put you some ice and a little water,” Shelley said when she came in again.

“That’s perfect.”

She had brought the bottle in on a tray, and next to it stood their two glasses, her own very pale. When Ben Joe picked his glass up, she watched his face carefully to see if he liked it, and smiled when he nodded to her.

“Just right,” he said.

“I’m glad.”

She picked up her own glass and, after turning over in her mind the problem of where to sit, chose a spot next to Ben Joe on the couch, settling there so delicately that her drink hardly wavered in its glass.

“Is it you that’s going to talk?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“I think it is.”

“Why?”

“Oh …” She took a sip of her drink and began turning her glass around, smiling into it. “When you come in slow and smiling, likely something is on your mind. Also if you’re too much the other way. And then me, I’m not in a real talky mood myself. So I figured it would be you to talk.”

“Maybe so.” He slid down, so that his feet were under the coffee table and his weight was upon the small of his back, and scratched the top of his head. “I’m thinking about it,” he explained when she laughed.

“Well, tell me what you did with your day.”

“My day. Lord. Nothing to speak of. It was Sunday. We all got the Sunday blues. Got them so bad that Susannah’s up in the attic hunting squirrels with a B-B gun now. Nobody went out. Me, I slept and then I read the funny papers twice through, and then I finished a murder mystery and peeled potatoes for Gram. It’s been a God-awful day, considering.”

He sat up straighter and took a swallow of his drink.

“You know,” he said, “except for an occasional Sunday, they don’t make days like they used to. I mean, they don’t make them whole any more. You noticed?”

He looked over at Shelley, but she only shook her head, puzzled.

“Oh, well, what I mean is, the days seem to come in pieces now. They used to be in blocks — all one solid color to them. Sometimes whole weeks would be in blocks. Someone could say, ‘What’s this week been like?’ and right off the bat you could say, ‘Oh, lousy. My father won’t let me have the car because he caught me scratching off in front of Stacy’s café the other day.’ Or it would be a great week, for another reason just that clear-cut. It’s not that way any more.”

“Well …” Shelley said. She was trying, but in the end she gave up and said, “I reckon I never did notice that, Ben Joe.”

“No, I guess not.”

“You tell me about the pieces, then.”

“All right.”

He settled back again and thought a minute. “What I’m mainly wondering,” he said, “is whether Mom ever looks at the bank records. I’ve never actually seen her do it. She’s real funny that way. Sometimes I think Jenny is the one who manages the family now, as if Mom weren’t there. Jenny tells her what’s going on but only to keep her informed, not to ask her for any decisions. So maybe she doesn’t know anything about the bank books.”

“What difference does it make if she does?” Shelley asked.

“Well, I took some money out when I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what she’d do if she knew. I’m worried about it.”

He drained the last of his drink and then balanced the glass on his knee. It made a cold, dark ring in the fabric of his trousers. “I don’t know why it’s always so hard deciding which side I’m on,” he said.

“Let me pour you another drink, Ben Joe.”

“Also, I found out Joanne’s asking for a divorce,” Ben Joe said. He watched Shelley’s hands as she poured his bourbon; they were long, thin hands that seemed uncertain about what they were touching. “She says she just left Gary, not even telling him about it. The lawyer’s getting in touch with him now. Sometimes I’m hoping Gary’ll say no, she can’t have the divorce, and Joanne will leave Sandhill and go back and be happy in Kansas again. But most times I’m hoping she’ll get divorced and stay with us. That Gary, I don’t know whether I like him or not. Well, hell, I’ve never even seen him. Except in this blurred snapshot Joanne sent us of him holding Carol when she was just newborn. There was all kinds of excitement when Carol was born. The girls went around calling each other ‘Aunt’—even Tessie — and Mom was ‘Grandma’ for I don’t know how long. Then they forgot about it. But Gary sent out these birth announcements that say there’s a new product on the market, giving the name of the manufacturers — that’s the parents — and all.”

“I think that’s nice,” Shelley said.

“Well. It just seems funny in our particular family, is all. Like that sentimental kind of letter he wrote us after Joanne called to say they were married. It began, ‘Dear Mom,’ in this unreadable handwriting, and Mom looked at the greeting and then at the closing to see what stranger was calling her Mom and she said, ‘Who’s Gary?’ It wasn’t till she’d read the letter that she figured it out. No, that’s a nice idea but it doesn’t fit, somehow, and I kind of hope he’ll give Joanne the divorce.” He sat up straight again and stared into the fire. “Why can’t they all just let me take care of them? My sisters are so separate. I’d be happy to take care of them.”