Behold the Dreamers(10)
Five
CINDY EDWARDS HAD BEEN NOTHING BUT CORDIAL TOWARD HIM (RESPONDING promptly to his greeting every time he held the car door open for her; asking, albeit disinterestedly, how his day was going; saying please and thank you as often as she needed to), and yet whenever she was in the car, he stiffened up. Was he breathing too loudly? Driving five miles per hour too fast or too slow? Had he cleaned the backseat well enough so a lingering speck of dust wouldn’t dirty her pantsuit? He knew she’d have to be a precision-obsessed woman with the sensitivity of a champion watchdog to notice such minor transgressions, but that wasn’t enough to allow him to sit at ease—he was still new at the job and thus had to be perfect. Thankfully, she was on her cell phone most days, like the Tuesday two weeks after he began driving her and her family. That afternoon, upon reentering the car in front of a restaurant near Union Square, she had immediately gotten on her phone. “Vince won’t be coming to Aspen,” she’d said slowly and sadly, almost in shock, as if reading aloud the headline of a bizarrely tragic news story from the paper.
Two hours earlier, a much happier Cindy had exited the car, and it had been clear to Jende that the young man she was meeting in front of the restaurant was her son Vince—he was a replica of his father, bearing the same six-foot frame, slender build, and wavy hair. Cindy had all but sprinted out of the car to get to him, to hug him and stroke his cheeks and give him three kisses. It seemed she hadn’t seen him in months, which, based on what Mighty had said, was entirely likely. For minutes they had stood on the sidewalk chatting, Vince rubbing his hands and moving them in and out of his blue Columbia hoodie, Cindy motioning toward Union Square Park and smiling broadly, as if reminding Vince of a special moment they’d once shared there.
“I just had lunch with him,” she went on. “He didn’t say why … No, he says he’s definitely not coming … I said he said he’s not coming! … He’s going to some silent retreat in Costa Rica, something about his Spirit badly needing to get away from the noise … What do you mean it’s okay? Don’t tell me it’s okay, Clark. Your son’s deciding to not spend the holidays with his family and you’re telling me it’s fine? … No, I don’t expect you to do anything. I know there’s nothing you can do … I know there’s nothing I can do, but doesn’t it bother you? I mean, do you not care how he has no sense of family? He doesn’t come for Mighty’s birthday, doesn’t even care to ask me before deciding to go away for Christmas … I’m not rescheduling it … Sure, it might all be for the best. You’re now free to work on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and why don’t you just work nonstop till next year? … Don’t tell me I’m being ridiculous! … If you cared more, Clark, just a little bit more, about how the boys are doing, if they’re happy … I don’t want you to do anything else, because you’re incapable of looking past yourself and putting the needs of others above yours … Yeah, of course, but someday you’re going to have to realize that you can’t keep on doing what you’re doing and hope that somehow, by chance, the kids are going to be all right. It doesn’t work like that … It’ll never work like that.”
Jende heard her toss her phone onto the seat. For a minute the car was silent except for the sound of her heavy breathing.
“Are you coming to Mighty’s recital?” she said after picking up the phone and apparently calling her husband again. “Yes, call me right back, please … I need to know ASAP.”
His hands firmly at the nine and three o’clock positions—as he’d been taught to drive in Cameroon—Jende made a turn onto Madison Avenue. The sun had already left the city on the frigid late afternoon, but Manhattan shone brightly as always and, beneath its streetlamps and in the white lights spilling from glowing stores, he saw faces of many colors going north and south at varied speeds. Some along the crowded avenue looked happy, some looked sad, but none seemed to be as sad as Cindy Edwards at that moment. Her voice was so drenched in agony Jende wished someone would call her with good news, funny news, any kind of news to make her smile.
Her phone rang, and she promptly picked it up.
“What do you mean you’ll make it up to him?” she shouted. “You promised him you’d be at the recital! You can’t keep telling a child … I don’t care what’s going on at Lehman! I don’t care how awful things might get if Lehman doesn’t … And what about the Accordion Gala? I need to RSVP by the end of the week … Oh, no, please go on the trip, Clark. Just …”
She tossed the phone aside again and sat with her left elbow against the car door, resting her head in her hand. She sat like that for minutes, and Jende thought he heard the sniff of a downcast woman fighting back tears.
Somewhere in the East Forties, she picked up the phone again.
“Hey, Cheri, it’s me,” she said after the voicemail prompt, her voice placid but the anguish therein still evident. “Just calling, nothing much. I finally got the tickets, so we’re good. Call me back if you’re free. I should be home in about … Never mind, you don’t need to call me back. I’m good, just having a real crappy day. You’re probably still out with your clients … Oh well. By the way, let me know if you’d like some company when you go visit your mom next week, okay? I’ll be glad to come with you.”