Never Too Late

“God, you are so pathetic. Snap out of it, will you?”

“Maggie, I know you have no respect for me, but I love her, I do. I’m devoted to her. I’m a stupid idiot, I’ve treated her so badly, but honestly, the thought of losing her in that accident changed everything for me.”

“You’ve got to stop drinking, take a shower and go to work,” she said.

“But you’ll ask her?”

“I said I would. And if the answer is still no?”

Head drop again. He turned and faced the bar, leaning on braced hands. “She can have anything she wants,” he said.

She stood there watching his back for a moment, but he wasn’t turning around. “Thanks, Roger. I’ll be in touch.”

Maggie went back to her office for the rest of the afternoon. She could have called Clare and asked her the loaded question, but wanted to be face-to-face in case Clare revisited earlier fits of indecision and even thought about giving Roger another chance. Maggie considered lying and not asking the question. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the possibility of that conniving Roger telling on her. But, she fully intended to talk Clare off the ledge if she had to.

So she went to Clare.

“You are looking so much better,” she remarked. And Clare really was. Those first few weeks after the accident she had become so thin, pale and wasted looking, her face in the constant grimace of pain. But that was easing now and she’d not only put on a couple of pounds, she was able to primp a bit. Her hair was shiny, her face had color.

“Thanks. I think I’m going to live.”

“How’s the pain?”

“I can’t get through the night yet, but as long as I get a nap, my days are pretty manageable. Did you talk to Roger?”

They were seated in the family room. Jason was at the kitchen table with his schoolbook open while Dotty chopped vegetables at the counter. When Clare asked the question, everyone froze and silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Yes. He made me promise to ask you if he could stay and take care of you.”

Jason slammed his book and shoved back the kitchen chair as he stood. He looked as though he was about to storm out of the room.

“No,” Clare said without even glancing at Jason. “No, he has to leave. Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

Jason looked into the family room and met his mother’s eyes. He smiled somewhat sheepishly. He picked up the closed book and left the kitchen, not angry but mollified. Dotty went back to her chopping without comment, but there was no question she was listening raptly.

“And what did he say?”

“That you can have whatever you want.”

“Well. That was nice of him. I think.”

Maggie leaned forward and whispered so that Dotty wouldn’t hear. “You should see him. He’s a mess.”

“Roger?”

“Dirty, greasy, wrinkled, drinking bourbon. Neat.”

“No kidding?”

“A broken man,” she said. Then sitting back she wondered what she was doing. It was dangerous to paint him that way and risk Clare’s sympathy.

“Ah,” Clare said. “The Broken Man game. Been there, done that.”

“Is that how he gets?” Maggie asked.

“Ritualistically,” Clare confirmed.

“But I’ve seen him here and there during your separations—I never noticed this side of him.”

“I suspect he can put on a good face around his friends and clients. But I’ve seen him miserable and pitiful. Why do you think I always get suckered into one more chance?”

“Well, I knew you felt sorry for him and caved, but…”

“But you thought I was just stupid? Well, partly. But mostly it’s that Roger is so good at convincing me he’s sorry, that he’s learned his lesson and he’ll never do it again. I think I’ve recovered from that temptation now.”

Maggie stiffened. “You mean it’s all an act?”

“Actually, it’s not an act. I think he really goes through it—the remorse, the guilt, the shame. The depression. The problem is, it has yet to modify his behavior.”

“God, that accident. It really did shake up your thinking. You finally get him.”

“Sort of,” she said. “Probably it’s more that I finally get me.”

Maggie settled back in the family room, relaxed and had a glass of wine. Clare’s was apple juice—the wine didn’t go well with pain meds. Maggie made time for the family gatherings but the rest of her life was always a rush; she always had a million things to do. Now she seemed more at ease, hanging out at her dad’s during the workweek, than she had in quite a while. Clare wondered if it was because they were finally on the same page about her divorce.

Then Sarah came home, a little early, as she was doing these days. It was almost as though she was desperate to make sure Clare was all right, that the family remained intact. She was clearly delighted to see Maggie. Before the accident the sisters tried to carve out time for an after-work cocktail at least every other week. “Oh boy,” she said. “Happy hour.” She poured herself a glass of wine and joined them.

Sarah was wearing paint-stained overalls. Underneath was a lime-green sweater, the sleeves so baggy that when she pushed them up to her elbows, they just slid down again. Maggie noticed that she had a piece of duct tape holding her glasses together. “You didn’t have to dress up for us,” Maggie said.

“The paint doesn’t care what I wear,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Just dropping by.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ll be glad when we can get back to our regular happy hours.”

“It’s going to be a while, I’m afraid,” Clare said.

“Sooner than you think,” Sarah said, giving Clare’s hand an affectionate pat.

“Tell her about Roger, Maggie,” Clare said. “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Roger’s falling apart,” Maggie said.

“Really?” Sarah asked, leaning forward.

“I went to see him about getting Clare back in her house and caught him drinking in the early afternoon. He’s miserable. He’s greasy and wrinkled and pathetic.”