Amity Gaige - Schroder

It was dark by the time we reached Beacon Street. We walked along the northern border of the Common while I tried to orient myself. A man stood under the streetlight dressed as a turn-of-the-twentieth-century valet. Two pale gray horses waited behind him, wearing red paper cones on the crests of their heads.

“Excuse me. Are we near the T stop?” I asked the man.

“Not too far. You can cut across right there to Park Street Station.”

“Is that the Red Line? Green?”

“Both.”

“Does the Red Line still go out to Savin Hill Road?”

“Sounds right, bud. Is that in Dorchester?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been home in a long time.”

I watched Meadow edge up to the horses. They swung their blinkered faces toward her. The nearer horse’s hindquarter shuddered as she touched it.

“Hey, what about you?”

“Me?” the man asked.

“Can you take us to Dorchester?”

“Are you kidding? You don’t know much about horses, do you?”

I smiled. “No, I don’t. How much would it cost me?”

“It would cost you the price of a new horse.” The man laughed. “That’s a new one, though.”

“Just wanted to make a big entrance, I guess.”

The man was still laughing good-naturedly. “That’s a new one, bud. Thanks.”

Now Meadow leaned her head against my side. “Are we going to see Grandpa Otto now?”

I put my hand on the top of her head. I’d let it get too late, far later than Dad would possibly be up. I could say now that I’d had a presentiment, that I wasn’t ready to face what awaited. But the truth is, I was just happy to be back — to be back home —and even the memory of myself as an outcast and a monster seemed exaggerated, merely the same way everybody feels, on some level, at that age. I looked down at my daughter, who stood belly out, rubbing her paunch. It was her — it was returning with her — that made me feel I’d outstripped all that.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “Daddy lost track of time. I know Grandpa Otto and I know he goes to bed early. Tomorrow we’ll go. Bright and early. Besides, we’re not ready. Your clothes are looking a little pooped out. We’ve got to buy you a new dress.”

A faint smile. “A new dress?”

“A fancy new dress, don’t you think? With hoops and bows. And a muff. So you can meet your grandfather in style. I’ll take you to Filene’s. It was — or it used to be — right off the Common. Excuse me.” I pointed, asking the driver, “Is Filene’s still this way?”

“You mean Macy’s? On Winter Street? It’s a Macy’s now.”

Satin dresses with multiple petticoats. Velvet cloaks with silver toggles. Dresses with hoops. Dresses with matching gloves or coin purses. Meadow ran around the racks before she was calm enough to touch anything. At that hour, the children’s department was empty, with one or two weary saleswomen neatening the inventory. I nodded and tried to look unassuming, but when I saw Meadow pressing one of the dresses against herself and smiling, I couldn’t keep myself from bellowing, “Try it on!”

I was studying a brochure of Boston hotels when she emerged.

“Will you look at that,” I said, trying not to tear up.

The dress was turquoise and hung just below her knees. The top of it was satin, but there was a shimmery netting over the skirt, the faux crystals of which glinted beneath the department store track lighting. The apron of the dress was as flat and smooth as her chest, cinched at the waist by a silver buckle. Over this, she wore a short matching turquoise jacket. The effect of the dress was somehow made sweeter by the dingy ankle socks she had not thought to remove in the dressing room.

“Your grandfather is going to love you,” I murmured. “He’s going to think you’re the bee’s knees.”

She was turning back and forth before the three-way mirror, not listening, her shoulders pinched forward, chin tucked under. Three Meadows, three turquoise dresses. Three fathers, looking on. Three red eyeglasses and six dirty socks, three manes of peroxided hair. I’m not sure if I’ve ever loved her more.

“I look like Rapunzel. Don’t I? Don’t I look like Rapunzel finally, Daddy?”

I’d gotten used to the silence between us, Laura. I knew it was cruel not to call you, to tell you that Meadow was all right, that it wasn’t as bad as you were thinking. But I was used to your absence, and we were both used to cruelty by then, I mean the casual cruelty of people dismantling their life together. Odd, how there’s so much deliberating before a divorce. Such a lot of shilly-shallying, nobody wanting to be the bad guy. But then once the declarations are made, the lines are drawn, a desperate power grab commences, and there’s no more chivalry, no more nuance, no more delicacy. Only winning or losing.

I sat in that hotel room staring at the telephone. I wanted to call you. Not because I was scared and knew I was in deep, and not even because I knew it was the right thing, but because I wanted to talk about Meadow with you. I wanted to talk to the only other person who had the same investment in Meadow as I did. I wanted to talk about small things, about how she swam in her clothes, or about her habit of starting sentences with adverbs like actually or technically . I wanted to tell someone stories about what she did or said and have that person respond with the same rush of tenderness that I felt when these things were happening in front of me. I wanted to tell someone about the turquoise dress. She was wearing it now, complete with dirty bobby socks, as she ate a package of Fritos in front of the television, straddled on the floor. I wanted to tell someone how glamorous and incongruous she’d looked wearing her gown in the lobby of the Best Western.

Instead, I put the telephone back in its cradle. I lay down on the bed and crossed my hands over my chest and got very quiet. It was over, our marriage. I could not be married to Meadow’s mother anymore. I could not be married to that notion. I couldn’t call you anymore to talk about the small things.

I rolled over and faced the wall. Cartoon voices quarreled from the TV, and Meadow guffawed. I could hear luggage wheels squeaking down the hallway. I tried to focus on what I had committed to doing by coming to Boston.

Dad , I thought. My father. Vater . How to prepare for you? I wondered if he would look the same. I wondered if his English had improved. I wondered if he’d remarried, if maybe he had finally reciprocated the attentions of the Caribbean woman who lived in the apartment below ours and who adored my father despite his comical stiffness in her presence. I did not wonder if my father would be angry with me for my long silence. I did not want to flatter myself with the thought that he would be angry about it. In fact, the more I thought about him, the more certain I became that he would not be changed at all, and the happier I grew about that, whereas when I was a boy, I wanted him so badly to be different.

I was disoriented when I awoke, fully dressed atop the made bed. It was late, but the television was still playing, volume off. Jets of damp air came through the vents below the window. Meadow was sitting upright across from me in her bed, still in her dress, looking stricken.

“What is it?” I said.

She looked at me hazily but did not answer.

“What is it?”

I stood and leaned in to her face and took her by the shoulders. After a long pause, she drew a shallow breath.

“I’m fine,” she wheezed. Her breath sounded broken.

I stood up.