Daddy

“I don't give a damn. A certain decorum is, at least when my children are around. Just see that you maintain it.”

“Don't threaten me, Oliver. I'm not one of your children. I'm not your maid. I don't work for you anymore. And if that's what you mean when you say you don't know me, you're right. You never did. All I was was a hired hand to keep your kids in line, and do your laundry.”

“That's a rotten thing to say. We had a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it. We wouldn't have stayed together for damn near twenty years if all you were to me was a maid.”

“Maybe neither of us ever noticed.”

“And what's different now, other than the fact that you've deserted your children? What's so much better? Who cooks? Who cleans? Who takes the garbage out? Someone has to do it. I did my work. You did yours. And together we built something terrific, until you knocked it down, and walked all over it, and us, on the way out. It was a stinking thing to do, to all of us, and especially me. But at least I know what we had. We had something beautiful and worthwhile and decent. Don't denigrate it now just because you walked out.”

There was a long silence at her end, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if she was crying. “I'm sorry … maybe you're right … I just … I'm sorry, Ollie … I couldn't hack it….”

His voice was gentler again. “I'm sorry you couldn't.” His voice was sweet and gruff, “I loved you so damn much, Sarah, when you left I thought it would kill me.”

She smiled through her tears. “You're too good and too strong to ever let anything get you down for long. Ollie, you don't even know it, but you're a winner.”

“So what happened?” He grinned ruefully. “It doesn't look to me like I won. Last time I looked, you weren't hanging around my bedroom.”

“Maybe you did win. Maybe this time you'll get something better. Someone better suited to you, and what you want. You should have married some terrible, light-hearted bright girl who wanted to make you a beautiful home and give you lots of children.”

“That's what I had with you.”

“But it wasn't real. I only did it because I had to. That's what was wrong with it. I wanted to be doing this, leading a bohemian life with no responsibilities other than to myself. I don't want to own anyone or anything. I never did. I just wanted to be free. And I am now.”

“The bitch of it is I never knew … I never realized …”

“Neither did I for a long time. I guess that's why you didn't either.”

“Are you happy now?” He needed to know that, for his own peace of mind. She had turned their life upside down, but if she had found what she'd been looking for, maybe it was worth it. Just maybe.

“I think I am. Happier anyway. I'll be a lot more so when I accomplish something that I think is worthwhile.”

“You already did … you just don't know it. You gave me twenty great years, three beautiful kids. Maybe that's enough. Maybe you can't count on anything forever.”

“Some things you can. I'm sure of it. Next time you'll know what you're looking for, and what you don't want, and so will I.”

“And your French friend? Is he it?” He didn't see how he could be at twenty-five, but she was a strange woman. Maybe that was what she wanted now.

“He's all right for now. It's a very existential arrangement.”

Oliver smiled again. He had heard the words before, a long time since. “You sound just the way you did when you lived in SoHo. Just make sure you're going ahead and not back. You can't go back, Sarrie. It doesn't work.”

“I know. That's why I never came home.” He understood now. It still made him sad, but at least he understood it.

“Do you want me to file?” It was the first time he had ever asked her directly, and for the first time it didn't break his heart to say the words. Maybe he was finally ready.

“When you have time. I'm in no hurry.”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart …” He felt tears sting his eyes.

“Don't be.” And then she said good night, and he was left alone with his memories and his regrets, and his fantasies about Jean-Pierre … the lucky bastard …

Sam crept back into his father's bed that night, for the first time since he'd come to New York, and Oliver didn't mind. It was comforting to have him near him.

And that weekend they went to Purchase, but they didn't see Benjamin. The children were busy with their friends, and Sarah's garden was in full bloom, so Aggie had her hands full clipping things she wanted to take back to the city, and on Saturday morning, as Oliver lay in bed, quietly dreaming, the phone rang.

It was George, and as Oliver listened, he sat bolt upright in bed. His father wasn't making much sense, all he could understand was that his mother had been hit by a bus and was in a coma. She was back in the hospital again, and his father was crying, his voice jagged and broken.

“I'll be right there, Dad. When did it happen?” It had happened at eight o'clock that morning.