Эд Макбейн - Love, Dad

“Tennis player?”

“Yeah, a pro on the over-forties circuit. Actually, he’s not a bad guy. The point is, my mother was leaving my father, and all of a sudden I was desperate to keep the marriage together. I practically got down on my hands and knees, begging her to give up this adolescent fling of hers.” Matthew shrugged. “I used to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling. The minute my parents separated, I started eating like a pig. You know how much I weigh now? A hundred and eighty-four pounds. That’s a lot. I’m only five eight, did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you told me,” Lissie said.

“How do you like his new wife?”

“She’s okay, I guess.”

“How old is she?”

“She was just twenty-seven.”

“And you?”

“Nineteen.”

“When will you be twenty?”

“In December.”

“Close. I mean your ages.”

“Yes,” Lissie said.

“Makes matters worse,” Matthew said. “Listen, you’ll get over it.”

“Get over what?”

“Your resentment, or whatever it is you’re feeling.”

“I’m not feeling anything at all.”

“I thought maybe you might be. I sure did. But you’ll get over it, believe me. I play tennis with the son of a bitch now. Whenever they invite me over, I try to whip his ass in tennis. They live on Long Island, he’s got his own court — naturally. I try my best to beat him. It’s like I have another father all at once. With my real father, I’m going to dental school and trying to whip his ass that way, and with my stepfather, I try to beat him at tennis. What does your stepmother do?”

“I don’t think of her as that.”

“Well, that’s what she is, you know. You know what they call a stepmother in France?”

“No, what?”

“A belle-mère. That’s kind of nice, don’t you think. Belle-mère? Beautiful mother? A mother you don’t have to take shit from. Very different from the American concept of the wicked stepmother. Belle-mère.”

“My mother calls her the Little Blond Bimbo.”

“Wicked Witch of the West, right?”

“The East. They live in New York.”

“So what does she do?”

“She’s a musician. She plays the flute.”

“Yeah? Hey, cool.”

“Mm,” Lissie said.

“You play any instrument?”

“No.”

“I used to play guitar,” Matthew said. “With a rock group. Well, who didn’t?” he said, and shrugged again. “Amateur Night in Dixie, you know, rehearse in the garage, all that shit— Hey, kids, let’s put on a show! I was the world’s worst guitar player.”

She thought suddenly of Judd, and wondered where he was these days. And then she wondered if Paul was still in India, and felt suddenly as though time were rushing by too quickly. Across the river someplace, a bell tower tolled the hour. It was midnight. She was about to turn into a pumpkin again.

“I’ve got to get home,” she said.

“Sure. Hey, listen, I’m sorry I talked your ear off.”

“No, I enjoyed it.”

“I’m not usually so garrulous. Spencer calls me the ‘Mummy’s Curse.’ That’s because I’m usually so quiet when I’m with that fuckin’ marble statue. Do you like horror movies?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. If they’re not too scary.”

“Want to go see a horror movie with me sometime? I’m an expert on horror movies. I mean, lady, if you think I know all about the primal scene, you ain’t heard nothing till I give you my theory on the horror-movie monster as a metaphor for Death.”

“I’d love to hear it sometime,” Lissie said.

“You just heard it,” Matthew said, and grinned. “So how about it? Can I call you?”

“Well...”

“See a movie, catch a bite to eat.” He shrugged.

“Well, you see...”

“Go dancing?” He brought up his hands and snapped his fingers. “Very light on my feet, lady.”

“It’s just that I’m sort of involved with someone right now.”

“Oh, sure, right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Will you let me know when you get un involved?”

“I don’t think that’ll be any time soon.”

“Everything ends sooner or later,” Matthew said.

“I’m not so sure of that.”

“Everything,” he said, and nodded solemnly.

“Well, if it ends...”

“Yes, he said breathlessly?”

“I’ll call you,” she said, and smiled.

“I’m at Tufts.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So call me,” he said.

“If it ends.”

“When it ends. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good,” he said, and looked at her, and nodded. “Good,” he said again.

August 17, 1971

Dear Lissie:

I’ve had no word from you, and I’m wondering if you’ve received my last several letters and the few little things I picked up at Saks and Doubleday for you? I called Rusty Klein in Rutledge yesterday to ask if she had a phone number for you, and she said she did but that you’d requested her not to give it to anyone. I was sure this didn’t apply to me, but Rusty seemed adamant about it, and when I spoke to her father later, he said he didn’t know where she kept her private directory, so I’m afraid her secret (and yours) is still inviolate.

I would call your mother to ask her for the number, but I really don’t enjoy talking to her, Lissie, and it would be so much easier if you were to send it to me yourself. Besides, if Rusty won’t give me the number, I’m sure your mother has the same instructions, and she’ll also refuse to give it to me. Why don’t you just call here collect some night, and we can have a long talk and fill each other in on what’s been happening, okay? Hope to hear from you soon.

Love,

August 23, 1971

Dear Lissie:

Well, in desperation, I finally did call your mother last night, and she told me she does indeed have a number for you, and has been talking to you regularly but — just as I’d expected — she would not give me the number because you asked her not to.

Lissie, I don’t know what’s going on, I really don’t. Are you still sulking over my refusal to give you the $300 you wanted for your trip? If not, why haven’t you answered any of my letters, and why have you given your phone number to everyone but your own father? I really don’t understand. Won’t you please contact me soon?

Love,

August 30, 1971

Dear Lissie:

Your mother wrote to tell me you were in New York to see her last week, and that you seem well and happy. Couldn’t you have called while you were in New York? Your mother said you had decided not to go back to Brenner in the fall. What do you plan to do, Liss? I’m worried about you, and wish you would call or write. I would love hearing from you.

Love,

P.S. Please call collect.

September 7, 1971

Dear Lissie:

Joanna and I were in Rutledge for the Labor Day weekend, and Mr. Landers gave me a sweater you left when you were there visiting Sally. I am sending it under separate cover. I haven’t heard from you in quite some time, and am worried about you. Please call. I miss you.

Love,

September 12, 1971

Dear Lissie:

It has now been a very long time since we’ve seen each other. I have no quarrel with you, and I’m not sure even now that I understand your quarrel with me. I know only that if the breach continues very much longer, we are in serious danger of losing touch completely. I cannot believe that’s what you want, Lissie. I can assure you it’s not what I want. Again, I extend our love and our invitation to you. Our house is open, we would like to see you. How about next weekend? You should have this letter in a day or two, so can we count on the weekend of the eighteenth? Please call or write to let us know.