Christopher Hacker - The Morels

What had changed? Why had Penelope chosen this day to leave him? He could only think that her father was at the bottom of all this. His lawsuit, his corrosive anger. Since he’d filed the suit, he called the house daily. If Arthur answered, Frank would hang up. When Penelope answered, she would take the cordless into the bathroom and have long conversations from which she would emerge cantankerous, spoiling for a fight. Had her father finally gotten to her? But why wouldn’t she speak to him about it? It was unlike her. She was usually so vocal about things.

Arthur swayed there for a moment after pressing the bell. He pressed it again. He hadn’t imagined this scenario. Somehow, he thought that Constance would open the door to let him in, that he would be able to ascend the stairs to Penelope, to Will. He didn’t know what he would do when he saw them — his imagination didn’t go that far — but the important bit would be to have them there in front of him. Something would come. Their very presence would see to that. She would say something, and then Will would say something, and then Arthur would say something — at which point they would be talking and, from there, all roads led home. He would do whatever he had to, say whatever he had to, to have them back. But none of this could happen out here.

He stabbed at the doorbell, banged at the door with his fist. He yelled, Penelope! Will! He paced, banged some more. It was no good, no good! Even if Penelope did come to the door, it would be no good. To speak to her out here would be to lose them both. All roads, from out here, led to rift, to divorce. She would say something, he would say something, it didn’t matter, it would end, whatever was said, with her walking back inside and closing the door on him. These were the essential truths of body and action: to cross the threshold, to breach her father’s castle, was to win; to stand out here in the cold was to lose. He had to get in.

The lights came on downstairs by the entrance, but he remained staring at the closed door. He pressed the bell again, followed by a few raps with the door’s knocker. This produced some whispering on the other side of the door. Arthur tried peering through the lace gauze in the narrow side window. Constance, he said. It’s Art. Please. Let me in.

The curtain was yanked back by a hand, and Frank’s face appeared suddenly, sternly, nose to nose with Arthur. He shook his head slowly — so that it could have stood both for refusal as well as disappointment — and then disappeared again.

Arthur banged on the door, so hard it rattled the frame, rattled his teeth. He bellowed, Penelope! Will! Let me in!

He marched around to the rear, trudging the gift bag at his side, to the enclosed porch. The screen door was locked, but the door was outfitted at its base with a swinging panel for Curtis the Cat.

Arthur crawled down and managed, by turning himself sideways, to wedge himself in. Strands of spiderweb tickled his lips and clung to his face.

Hands planted, legs still outside, he heard the swoosh of the sliding back door and a sound that, never having heard it before in person nor ever having felt the cold steel of it on the back of his head, he knew nevertheless to be the cocking of a shotgun.

Back, Frank said.

Arthur moved to stand up.

No. The way you came. He nudged Arthur back with the tip of the gun.

Come on, Frank! I need to see my wife.

Not tonight, you don’t. Now go.

Arthur was forced to shimmy back out through the unyielding pressure of the gun barrel on his head. He stood up, facing his father-in-law through the screen door. He said, I can’t leave until I see them.

They don’t want to see you.

Why?

If you have to ask, then I don’t know what to tell you.

Just open the door, Frank. They stood staring at each other. It was clear Frank had no intention of letting Arthur pass. Arthur grabbed the handle of the screen door and rattled it.

Frank shouldered the shotgun and firmed his stance. I will blow your head off.

Arthur was suddenly furious. Do it! Do it! Shoot me, Frank. Go ahead — Penelope!

The whoosh of the sliding door again, and Constance, in pajamas, came out. Okay, okay, she said, her voice low, calm. Frank’s not going to shoot you. Frank, put down that thing. But you can’t come in, Arthur.

Constance, Arthur said.

The police are on their way, she said. A cordless phone was in her hand — she held it out, as if this were proof of what she said, and then brought it to her chest. Now go, she said. Penelope will talk to you when she’s ready.

I need to see her. I need to see my son.

Will, Constance said, her voice suddenly different — still calm but no longer soft. As long as I can help it, you will never lay another hand on that boy.

Up until this point, Arthur had been in the dark about Penelope’s sudden retreat with Will, her refusal to see him. He had been raging out here under the impression that he was raging at — raging against — his in-laws, that he had come out here to win her, and Will, back from them. But this wasn’t it — he was still in the dark, but he saw now that he was not in the position he thought he was in — they were not barring his entry as much as they were protecting their daughter and grandchild. Penelope had not been lured to this place — she had fled here for protection. From him.

He was not the hero; he was the intruder.

Tears pricked his eyes. What is this? he said. He looked at the old couple before him as if for the first time — frail, frightened of the man standing before them.

Arthur walked back around to the front just as the flashing squad car pulled into the driveway. An officer who could have been one of Arthur’s students took down his name on a pad and asked him some questions, each one a spoonful of grief: what was his relationship to the Wrights, what had transpired between them, what was he doing out here. The questions framed this situation as a domestic dispute. They treated Arthur generously, compassionately, even — though he was made to stand by his Camaro with one of the officers while the other was admitted into the house by Constance.

Neighbors emerged from their houses and stood on their lawns. Ones who were too far away came up the road and stood watching with their arms folded.

A man approached the officer by Arthur and said, Everything okay here? He gave Arthur a penetrating glare.

Thanks for your concern, sir. Everything is under control — just go back inside. The man walked back, keeping his eye on Arthur, to his position on his lawn, arms folded. The officer rolled his eyes. Everybody wants to do something when there’s nothing to be done. Makes me laugh. Same guy passes a dark alley during a mugging, and he just keeps walking.

I just want to talk to my wife, Arthur said.

I understand, man. I really do. Believe me, I’ve been there. But if she don’t want to come out of there and talk? There’s nothing you can do. The officer had seemed merely a kid at first, but getting a longer look, he estimated that the man was older than he was by several years.

He pulled a gun on me, Arthur said. And threatened to blow my brains out! Isn’t that against the law? He didn’t like how he sounded — he was tattling on the old man. His body had begun to tremble, and a twitch in his stomach was threatening to force up the egg salad he’d had on the plane.

The officer pulled out his pad and made a note. Depends on the circumstances, he said. He who? The owner of the property? Mr. Wright. Your father-in-law, correct? And what were you doing at the time?

Never mind, Arthur said.

The officer cleared his throat and repeated his question, more forcefully this time, and Arthur reluctantly described the scene at the back porch. I don’t want to press charges, if that’s an option even.