Douglas Kennedy - Five Days

‘Here’s a better idea. I get a lift down to Portland on Saturday and we hang out for the afternoon and evening. And you can take me to dinner at that groovy Italian place we both like.’

‘It’s a date.’

‘You sound in a good place, Mom.’

‘Actually I am.’

‘Not that you’ve ever sounded like you’re in a bad place. I mean, you could give lessons about “putting a good face on things”. Still, nice to hear a hint of upbeat in your voice.’

Time to change the subject.

‘So give me all the details about the paint you need, the shop, and all that.’

Ben told me that when I got to the art supply store, just opposite Boston University on the Fenway, I was to ask for a guy named Norm ‘who’s been running this place since the nineteenth century’ and always mixed up the azure blue exactly the way Ben needed it.

‘The thing about Norm — he will never mix the paint until he has cash in hand, or a credit card number that works. And he’s only open until four p.m. today. But I’ll call him and say you’re coming. if you’re sure that’s not going to be too much hassle.’

‘You’re my son, Ben. It’s no hassle. And I can drop the paints off at the Museum of Art in Portland tomorrow.’

‘I’ll also phone Trevor and tell him to meet you there at twelve noon if that works.’

‘I’ve got the day off — so, yes, that works just fine. Give him my cell number and text me his. And I’ll text you this afternoon when I have the paint.’

‘You’re a star, Mom.’

As I put down the phone I found myself beaming. Richard came in from the next room.

‘So they’ve got a chambermaid at the other hotel, packing up both our rooms. I talked them into letting you leave your car there until tomorrow. And that phone call must have been a happy one, as you have the biggest smile imaginable on your face.’

I told him about the exchange with Ben, leaving out his comments about his father. I could see Richard again trying to get thoughts about his own son out of his head.

‘He so obviously recognizes what an amazing mother you’ve been to him.’

‘He’s quite the amazing son. And I really think — if he can keep his nerve and not give in to all that self-doubt, and can also get out of Maine for a number of years and really keep upping his game — he’s going to be important one day. Maybe even major.’

‘With you behind him. ’

‘He still has to do it all himself.’

‘Without you having to tell me anything I know that you’re the parent who’s been there for him.’

‘All I know is this — I’m the parent who needs to pick up some special paints for him this afternoon.’

I explained all the details about the particular shade of blue that this particular art supply dealer mixes up near Fenway Park, and how I had to be there by around three p.m., as the shop closes an hour later, and my son’s major new masterwork — Hey, I’m his mother — was awaiting completion.

‘Well, you clearly need to be up there at three,’ Richard said. ‘So here’s a plan. ’

We decided that, after lunch, Richard would jump the T out to the airport and I’d head up to the other side of town and pick up Ben’s paints, then we’d reconvene back here at the room around five.

But first we had a shower together, soaping each other up, kissing wildly under the cascading water, clinging to each other, promising to be always there for each other, repeating how much we loved each other, talking with an emotional freedom and openness that I had lost decades ago and never thought I would find again.

After dressing I sent a fast text to Sally:

Spending an extra day in Boston, playing hooky from the workaday world. How did the evening in Portland go? Love you — Mom

Bing. Back came the reply.

Concert was boring. Have an essay now to write on Edith Wharton. B-o-r-i-n-g. Dad says you have hangover. Cool.

My daughter the purveyor of a literary style that could best be described as ‘sullen adolescent minimalist’. I dreaded to think the volcanic reaction that would follow my revelation to her about the major upheaval that was going to change the contours of our family life. But first. there was the rest of this wonderful weekend to get through.

Richard’s phone binged a few times when we were dressing. He glanced in a cursory manner at the screen but chose to send no replies.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

‘Just some business stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this client — has about five hardware stores in the Lewiston/Auburn area — thinks he can call me day or night when he’s got a claim on the go. The thing is, one of his warehouses burned down three weeks ago. A disgruntled employee lit the match. The guy’s still on the run. My client suffered close to four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Between ourselves, because he’s had a couple of bad years, the insurance inspectors and the cops are wondering whether he might have talked the “disgruntled employee” into playing arsonist.’

‘You are going to write this story, right?’

‘Actually, it does have a nice James M. Cain feel to it. ’

‘Especially if you could add a femme fatale to it.’

‘You amaze me,’ he said.

‘Because I know who James M. Cain is?’

‘Because you’re so insanely smart.’

I kissed him.

‘Almost as smart as you.’

He kissed me.

‘You’re smarter,’ he said.

I kissed him.

‘You’re being kind.’

He kissed me.

‘Just accurate.’

‘I so love you.’

‘I so love you.’

On the way out of the hotel Richard stopped by the front desk to tell the woman there that we’d be staying in the suite another night. She checked its availability and said: ‘No problem.’

The gods were, without question, with us. Especially as we stepped out into another dazzling autumn day. The sun incandescent. The sky devoid of clouds. A light wind cascading the fallen leaves. The city spread out before us, so welcoming, so freighted with the great possibilities. Richard took my hand as we crossed into the Common.

‘Just yesterday. ’ I said.

‘Just yesterday. ’

He didn’t have to complete the thought. Just yesterday the world was different. And today.

‘Let’s go back and look at the outside of the apartment,’ I said.

‘I’m for that.’

We walked hand in hand across the Common, talking, talking, talking. About getting down here the weekend after next to meet with Richard’s contractor friend to discuss the renovations on the apartment. And also finding out who was conducting the Boston Symphony Orchestra that weekend, and trying to get seats. And yes, we would finally get to the Institute of Contemporary Arts that weekend. And we should also find out what’s going on at one of the interesting professional theater companies around town.

‘Leave all that to me,’ I said. ‘I’ll play Cultural Event Organizer.’

‘And I’ll find us the hotel and arrange the appointment with my builder friend from Dorchester, Pat Laffan. Surprise, surprise, Pat is a retired Boston Irish cop turned builder. A rather plain-spoken guy, Pat, but reasonably honest. which is rare to find in a builder.’

‘We could also start looking at furniture then. if that isn’t rushing things.’

‘I like the fact that we’re rushing things. We’re right to be rushing things.’

Ah, romantic discourse! How we both revelled in it — like two strangers who had separately thought: I’ll never master the French language, and then woke up next to each other one morning to discover they were speaking it together with a fluency and a confidence that had seemed impossible before then. How we both wanted this love. How we both knew it was so right. I wanted to gush romantic. Just as I also wanted to tell myself that the shared will to make this wonderful was so immense that we were naturally going to cohabit beautifully and deal with the usual domestic stuff with an ease and a grace that comes out of knowing what a sad marriage is like on a year-in, year-out basis.