Oliver reached out and drew the boy to him, putting him on his lap, holding his head against his shoulder, as he had done long ago, when Tony had been small.
“Tony,” Oliver said, and it was easier to talk this way, with the boy’s weight against him, and the bony feel of his legs, and his head averted, “listen carefully. I wish this hadn’t happened. I wish, if it had happened, you never knew about it. But it happened. You found out about it. And you had to tell me.”
Tony said nothing. He sat tensely, imprisoned in his father’s arms.
“Tony,” Oliver said, “I’d like to ask you a question. Do you hate your mother?”
Oliver felt the boy stiffen in his arms. “Why?” Tony asked. “What did she say?”
“Answer the question, Tony.”
With a sudden movement, Tony wriggled out of his father’s arms, and stood in front of him, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Yes,” he said savagely. “I hate her.”
“Tony …” Oliver started painfully.
“I’m not going to talk to her,” Tony said, speaking rapidly, his voice high and sharp and childish. “She can say anything she wants. Maybe I’ll say yes or no once in a while, when I have to, but I’m not going to talk to her.”
“How would you feel if you never saw her again?” Oliver said.
“Good!” He stood there, shoulders hunched, chin out fiercely, like a boy challenging another boy to cross a line drawn in the dust before him.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Oliver said gently. “She loves you very much.”
“I don’t care what she says.”
“But she’s afraid of you …”
“Don’t believe her. Don’t believe anything she says.” Now he didn’t sound like a little boy at all.
“And because she’s afraid of you,” Oliver went on, conscientiously, but without hope, going to the end of every argument, “she says she doesn’t want to take you home with us. She doesn’t want to live in the same place with you, she says.”
For a moment, Oliver thought that Tony was going to cry. He ducked his head and he rubbed his hands jerkily against his thighs. But then he raised his head and looked squarely at Oliver. “That’s okay with me,” he said. “I’m going to school anyway.”
“Not only school,” Oliver said, persisting. “She never wants to see you, she says. She doesn’t even want to let you come into the house. Not on Christmas. Not on holidays. Never.”
“Oh.” Tony’s voice was so soft that Oliver wasn’t sure he had said anything. “What if you said, ‘It’s my house, I’ll take in anybody I want.’”
“Then she’ll leave me,” said Oliver flatly. “This afternoon.”
“Oh.” Tony glanced, measuringly, at his father. “Don’t you want her to?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?”
Oliver sighed and when he spoke, he didn’t look at Tony, but above his head, at the blue sky, cold with its premonition of autumn. “It’s hard to explain to a thirteen-year-old boy what a …a marriage is like, Tony. How a man and a woman become—locked—with each other. I miscalculated on myself. Do you know what that means?”
Tony thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yes. You thought you were a certain way and you turned out to be another way.”
“A certain way.” Oliver nodded. “It turns out that I was wrong.”
“All right,” Tony said harshly. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m going to leave it up to you, Tony. If you say the word, I’ll call your mother out here and tell her you’re staying with me. And we’ll say good-bye to her and that’ll be the end of it.”
Tony’s mouth quivered. “And how’ll you feel then?”
“I … I’ll feel like dying, Tony,” Oliver said.
“And if I say I’ll go away?”
“I’ll take you home and start you in school and I’ll come back for your mother,” Oliver said, still looking over Tony’s head at the cold sky. “I’ll visit you on holidays and maybe in the summertime we could go on trips together. To the Rockies, to Canada, maybe even to Europe.”
“But I never could come home?” Tony asked, like a man at a ticket window in a railroad station asking all possible questions, to make sure there would be no mistake about the train he was to take.
“No,” Oliver whispered. “Not for a long time.”
“Never?” Tony asked harshly.
“Well, in a year or two …” Oliver said. “Right now your mother’s rather hysterical, but in time, I’m sure …”
“Okay!” Tony turned away, presenting his back to Oliver. “What do I care?”
“What do you mean, Tony?” Oliver stood up and walked over behind Tony, but didn’t touch him.
“Call her out here. Tell her you’ll come back for her.”
“Are you sure?”
Tony wheeled around and stared bitterly at his father. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“It’s up to you, Tony.”
Tony shouted now, out of control. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes, Tony,” Oliver whispered. “That’s what I want.”
“Okay,” Tony said recklessly. “What’re we waiting for?” He ran over to the door and threw it open and shouted in. “Mummy! Mummy!” Then he turned back to his father. “You talk to her.” Moving very quickly, his hands fumbling, he started to pick up his valises. “I want to put these old things in the car!”
“Wait.” Oliver put out his hand to restrain him. “You’ve got to say good-bye. You can’t just go off. Maybe, at the last minute, she’ll change her mind …”
“I don’t want anyone to change their mind,” Tony shouted. “Where’s my telescope?”
The door opened and Lucy came out. She looked pale, but composed, her eyes going from Oliver to Tony and back again.
“Oliver …” she said.
“I’m taking Tony with me now.” He tried to sound routine and matter-of-fact. “I’ll call you. I’ll be back for you some time next week.”
Lucy nodded, her eyes on Tony.
“We might as well get started now,” Oliver said, with shaky briskness. “It’s pretty late as it is. Tony, are these all your things?” He pointed at the two valises.
“Yes,” Tony said. He avoided looking at his mother, and gathered up the bat, the telescope, the fishing rod. “I’ll carry these.”
Oliver picked up the two valises. “I’ll wait for you in the car.” His voice was choked and muffled. He tried to say something to Lucy, but nothing seemed to come out. He walked off hurriedly, carrying the bags.
Tony stared after him for a moment, then, still avoiding looking at his mother, peered around him, as though making sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind him.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I got everything.”
Lucy went over to him. There were tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” she asked softly.
Tony fought with the movements of his mouth. “Sure,” he said gruffly. “Good-bye.”
“Tony,” Lucy said, standing close to him, but not touching him, “I want you to grow up into a wonderful man.”
With a childish cry of anguish, Tony dropped the things he was carrying and threw himself into Lucy’s arms. They held each other tight for a long time, but they both knew they were only saying good-bye and that it wasn’t going to do any good. Finally, Lucy stepped back, resolutely.