French Braid(47)

He had lived with Aunt Alice since the age of fourteen, after his mother died of cancer. Although really, Aunt Alice said, she had died of a broken heart. “If it wasn’t for that father of yours, she’d be alive and well to this day,” she told him. His father was a long-haul trucker who met some woman up in New Jersey and filed for divorce when Robin was six years old. “Divorce”—a word like a knife, in Robin’s opinion: hard and sharp and vicious, the cause of his mother’s eternal mute, damp misery. She went to work after that for a dry cleaner, doing alterations, but when Robin thought of her now he pictured her endlessly at home, endlessly slumped in a comma shape on the living-room sofa. Possibly, he allowed, there were some factors—physical cruelty, for instance—that could justify divorce, but otherwise, no. Couples who divorced were shirkers. They were simply not grown up. He had said as much to Mercy when he proposed. “I tell you this,” he had said. “If you can imagine us ever, ever divorcing, then I don’t want you to accept.” And she had known to take him seriously. She had squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye and said, “I promise you, Robin. That will never happen.”

But who could say what quality had attracted Mercy to him? He still marveled, after all these years, that she’d given him the time of day. He knew he was nothing much to look at, short of stature and socially awkward, forever doing the wrong thing and then groaning at his mistake, shaking his head at himself for hours afterward. A neighbor might call out a greeting, for instance, and Robin would answer, “Well, hey!” and wave an arm like a fool, only to realize a second later that the neighbor had meant the greeting for somebody farther down the street. Or a cashier at the store would tell him, “Enjoy your lunch,” as Robin left for his noontime break, and he would say, “You too,” and then wince and clap a hand to his forehead once he was outside, because she wasn’t going to lunch! She was just back from her lunch, for God’s sake!

Even the simplest interaction racked him with anxiety. He was always missing cues, it seemed. And yet Mercy loved him. He had never asked her why; he was afraid that if she reflected too deeply, she would realize her mistake. He just kept the thought close to his chest, and polished it and cherished it as he had since the day she had said yes to him: Mercy loves me.



* * *



—

Alice phoned. “So,” she said. “I hear you’re planning to throw an anniversary party.”

“Right,” he said. He nudged his bowl of chili away and sat back in his chair. Alice routinely called during his supper hour, five-ish, to keep him company while he ate. In fact Robin didn’t believe in doing two things at once, and so he always stopped eating until she said goodbye, but Alice didn’t know that.

“I would just like to say,” she told him, “that in my opinion, surprise parties are never, ever, under any condition whatsoever, a good idea.”

“Okay,” he said agreeably.

“So will you just tell Mom right now what it is you’re planning?”

“Oh, I think not, hon,” he said.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. No doubt she was rolling her eyes despairingly at Kevin.

“Also,” she said, “it’s really us who should be doing this. The three of us; your three offspring.”

“Well, that’s nice of you to offer,” he said. (Although she hadn’t, actually.) “But I’ve got this, thanks. I’ve got it all planned out.”

“Dad—”

“However!” he said brightly. “I did want to ask a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you phone David for me and make sure he comes? Twelve o’clock noon on Sunday week, the first of July. Tell him it really matters that they be here. You know best how to talk to him.”

“Well…but he may be tied up,” Alice said.

“Even if he is tied up! Tell him it’s important. Say they’re welcome to spend the night, if they like.”

“He’s not going to want to spend the night,” Alice said.

“Just try, though, hear? You’ve got a way with him.”

“Well…” she said. And then, “Okay.”

He allowed himself a little smile of self-congratulation.

“Now, about the menu,” she said.

“I’ve got the menu.”

“What? What are you serving?”

“It’s all, all under control,” he said soothingly.

“But I could make my—”

“I’ve got it. Thanks, hon. Bye.”

And he hung up and drew his chili bowl close again.



* * *



—

Everyone could come except the two Robbys. (Robby the Girl had a camp-counseling job in Rehoboth this summer. Robby the Boy was off in Spain with his college’s study-abroad program.) Even David and his family could come. Alice didn’t mention if she’d had any trouble persuading him, and Robin didn’t ask. She did say he’d declined to spend the night.

Robin hired his next-door neighbor’s cleaning lady to clean the house. It took her a full day, and that was just the downstairs. After that he was very careful not to let the place get cluttered again.

He ordered a cake from the supermarket, because he’d have had to be out of his mind to try baking his own, especially for Mercy. And he laid in all the groceries he’d need—simple stuff; his cooking skills weren’t up to much—and mowed the lawn and cut back the wisteria where it was taking over the porch.