Before Greg goes in he sends a text message: Roz needs you NOW Kelly's Then he moves to the doorway. Roz sets up her shot, takes it and straightens, then pauses to down a long swallow of beer. There's an empty tumbler next to a bottle of whiskey which sits beside the beer. She glances at him, pours out a finger and downs it fast. Then she turns her back on Greg.
"I'd like a Woodchuck please," he hears Sarah say to the bartender before she heads over to the cue rack and chooses a stick. "Mind if I join you?" This question is directed at Roz, who doesn't bother to look around.
"It's a one-person game."
Sarah pauses as she chalks her cue. "Since when?" She walks over and takes the bottle of hard cider the bartender offers her. The guy glances at Greg, who shakes his head. He's still under prohibition for a while yet, and the muscle regrowth is the only thing going right for him at the moment, so he's not about to screw that up too.
"You're not here to play. You're gonna try to convince me to go back to that stolto. Not interested." There's still no emotion in Roz's voice; she sounds cool, logical, disengaged. But he knows better. She's bleeding to death inside, and it's his fault.
"That's your choice to make, not mine." Sarah takes a sip, studies the layout of the table. "But I think it would be a better idea to talk about things at my place."
"Nothing to talk about." It was more than obvious Roz doesn't care if the whole damn village eavesdrops; gossip probably already flies over the phone and wi-fi about Marina's kid at the bar at noon on a Sunday afternoon, but this public argument will add more fuel to the fire.
"I think Greg would disagree," Sarah says softly.
"Greg can shove his head up his ass. Oh wait, it's already there." Roz lines up her shot, takes her time. Alcohol always messes with her ability to do math. He remembers teasing her about it. The pain that memory causes surprises him. To push it away he speaks aloud.
"You'll screw it up if you go in at that angle."
Roz deliberately takes the shot. The balls scatter and don't hit a single pocket. "Wow, what do you know, the genius is right again," she says, and slugs her beer. "But then what can you expect from some dirty blue-collar grunt, right? Shit for brains and all that."
"Stop it." Greg moves closer now, his voice sharp. He notes with interest it sounds a lot like fear. "You're not a dumb grunt and you're not dirty."
"Oh yeah, right. My mistake. The correct term is 'filthy'." She finishes off the beer and sets the dead soldier on the bar. "Filthy . . ." She draws it out, lingers on the dipthong. "What a great word. I'm gonna use it every day."
"Roz," Sarah says quietly. "This will not help."
"Another beer," Roz says to the bartender. The man glances at Sarah. "Hey! She's not my mom! I said another beer!"
"Bambina," Poppi says from the doorway, and Greg feels his the knot in his gut relax just a fraction. If anyone can save the day, it's a Roz's-grandfather-and-Sarah-tag-team. "Rosamundi, what are you doing?"
Roz freezes. She turns a slow glare on Sarah. "You bitch."
Sarah shakes her head. "I didn't call him."
"Your husband called me," Lou says. He goes over to the bar, picks up the beer and the bottle of whiskey and hands them to the bartender. "She won't be needing these."
"I'm old enough to make my own decisions!" Roz says loudly. She slaps the cue stick down on the table and faces her grandfather, arms folded.
"This is your mother's way of dealing with problems," Lou says. His dark eyes hold sadness. "Nana and I raised you better than this."
"Well according to my husband that's not true, so what difference does it make what I do?" Greg sees her pain as it threatens to break free, and sees also she's frightened of what will happen if she can't control it. "I guess everyone here was right about me all along, so why disappoint them?"
"I don't think everyone's right about you," Greg says quietly but unable to hide his impatience. Roz ignores him—about what he expects from her at the moment.
"Come with me," Sarah says. "Getting drunk won't help, sis. It'll just make things worse."
"Bambina, go with her," Lou says. "I'm coming too."
"No," Roz says. "No, I don't think so. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here." She must feel Sarah move closer because she tenses up, shoulders stiff. "Don't. I mean it. Don't start."
Sarah puts a hand on her shoulder anyway, and keeps it there even when Roz tries to pull free. "Please," she says softly. There's a long moment of standoff. Finally, on a growl of exasperation Roz digs in her pocket, throws a wad of bills on the bar and stalks out. She brushes past Greg as if he's a post. Of course Sarah makes sure the amount covers the tab and has a short, quiet conversation with the bartender before they leave. It's entirely possible the guy won't talk about this to the next customers who come in; Sarah can charm the birds out of the trees when she puts her mind to it, a talent she shares with Wilson, though it's put to a different use.
They all arrive at home more or less at the same time. Everyone piles into the living room, finds a seat. Greg comes in with reluctance and takes his easy chair but he sits on the edge, grips his cane and waits. Roz sits as far from him as possible. She doesn't look away but she doesn't acknowledge his presence either. Wilson is nowhere in sight; his car is still parked on the side of the drive though, so he hasn't high-tailed it back to Princeton. So therapy apparently works for him to some extent, though not enough to keep him out of trouble.
"Lou and I are here to make sure no one leaves before this fight is settled," Sarah says. That's such absolute pie in the sky malarkey Greg has no words, but he doesn't run this mess anyway so there's no reason to object. "Start talking."
"What's the point?" Roz says. "Nothing left to say." She looks directly at him then. "Is there?"
This is the make or break moment. The only thing he can go with is honesty, however it falls out. "I don't think you're a whore."
"Good to know." Roz's expression can best be described as inimical. "What do you think I am then? Just curious, because the only thing I really know about you is that you don't trust me."
"I don't trust anyone," he snaps, annoyed by this narrow focus on one issue.
"Bullshit," she comes right back at him. "You trust Sarah and you were starting to trust me too, so what the hell happened?"
"Having sex in every room in the house and watching tv together without fighting over the remote doesn't equal trust." Weak, totally weak, but he's off his game.
"I see." Roz sits back, arms folded. "That line about how I'll never know what it's like to love and not be loved back, guess that was a lie—"
"No!" He thumps the cane on the floor, and tries to find a way out of this mess. "I meant what I said at the time—"
"And now you don't?"
"No," he says, exasperated. "I mean yes, I—shit, I don't know what I mean!" His hands shake; he's about to fuck this up the way he always does.
"Slow down," Sarah says. "Everybody take a breath and relax." She tucks a curl behind her ear and glances at Greg. Her sea-grey eyes are somber, but she's not mad at him. His death grip on his cane loosens a little. "Pushing each other into corners won't help."
"I wasn't trying to hurt you," Greg says to Roz after silence falls. "When Wilson started flirting . . ." He stares at the floor.
"You didn't trust me not to flirt back." The pain in her words strikes at him. "You think I'd do something so terrible? Tell you I love you, then mess with someone else? How can you think that?" He can barely hear her. "I saw the things my mother did, the way she destroyed every feeling anyone ever had for her because she'd make promises she never had any intention of keeping. Well, I'm not built that way." She's got tears in her eyes now, but she won't let them fall. "If everything we've said and done since we became lovers is worthless because of five minutes of stupidity on someone else's part and your inability to get over the way another woman hurt you, then I really don't know you at all."
"Why'd you take off?" he demands. "You acted like you had no idea what to do—"
"I didn't!" It is a cry of pure desperation. "He's your friend, I didn't want to tell him off in front of you and cause a scene! How fucking hard is that to understand?"
"Since when have you cared about raising hell?" he says, skeptical of this disclaimer.
"I take it back, he's not a genius. Can you explain things to this testa di cazzo before I rip his head off?" Roz throws a glare at Sarah and wipes her eyes, little quick angry dabs, as if she's embarrassed to be seen doing it.
"Rosa," Lou says. To Greg's astonishment he's actually smiling a little.
"Non mi rompere le palle," Greg shoots back.
"There is one person in the room who doesn't speak Italian beyond what's on a menu and porca miseria," Sarah says dryly. "Can we use English please?"
"He's asking me not to bust his balls," Roz says. "If he had any to start with we wouldn't be here."
"Insults reflect on the insulter, so there," Greg says, and watches his wife's eyes fire with the light of battle. The words of a song come to him then: just to see you smile/I'd do anything that you wanted me to . . . It's crazy as hell to have that stupid mawkish tune come up when the woman he loves is about to rip into him, but there it is, the truth of the matter laid out in simple words, and he'd better do something about it right damn quick, as his shrink would say. "I'm sorry," he says aloud.
At any other time it would be funny to see the other three people in the room fall silent in outright shock, but right now he wants them, and particularly Roz, to take him at his word. "I'm sorry," he repeats.
"For what?" Roz says finally.
"For all of it." Greg looks at the floor. It's not a lie, he means it. He knows the choice that stands before him, the same one he's always faced: fly, or crash and burn. The wreckage of his previous attempts is scattered through his history, from kindergarten on up to the present day. He's been told and had it proven time and again he's a fuckup, someone who can't handle real joy or happiness in any form. If he wanted to he could see this as further evidence to support that theory and act accordingly. But he won't, because his work with Sarah has offered a different hypothesis . . . maybe, just maybe, he isn't doomed to repeat that history today. Tomorrow could be a different story, but right now . . .
"You're just telling me that to get out of a fight," Roz says.
"Well yeah," he says. "But it's still true. Might as well cut to the chase."
She looks at him a long time, a considering stare, as she weighs things in her mind. She's still mad and deeply hurt, that's clear. It will take time for her to simmer down. "Thank you," she says at last.
"No problem," he lies.
"This doesn't make everything right between us."
"One step at a time," Sarah says, and now Greg can see she's exhausted; the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks by the summer sun stand out sharply against her pale skin. "You can stay here if you want tonight."
"No, we're going home," Roz says before Greg can refuse the offer. She doesn't say anything more, but that settles that.
Their little party breaks up now. Roz and Lou exchange a few words and a long, gentle hug. Sarah comes over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't say anything, for which Greg is grateful. Undoubtedly they'll talk about this in great length later, but for now her quiet support is all he can handle.
An hour or so after they've arrived home, Roz comes into the living room where he watches the game. "Supper's ready," she says quietly. He was surprised she'd decided to cook, but if she wants to work off her anger with a meal he's not going to complain. He will check the counters for boxes of rat poison first though.
It's a simple dinner: chicken with a mashed potato dish on the side, filled with sautéed spinach and feta cheese, and some green beans. He fills his plate and sits at the table across from her, and reaches out to take her hand as she's about to pick up her fork.
"I meant it," he says. Her hand lies cool and unresisting in his clasp.
"This time," she says, and the bitterness makes him flinch.
"You're right, this kind of thing will happen again because I'm a hopeless jerk who turns every relationship into a train wreck," he says. "But that doesn't preclude my feeling bad because I hurt you by being stupid."
She's silent a long time. "That makes no sense."
He smiles just a little. "Yeah, I know." His thumb caresses her palm. "Don't think about it, it'll make your head ache."
"Too late." She stares down at their hands. "I'm not my mother," she says quietly.
"No, you're not. You're a beautiful, intelligent woman who deserves someone far better than me to give you every good thing," he says, and something, a little catch in his voice or an inflection of some sort, takes her attention because she lifts her face to his. Her eyes are steady, direct; they're hazel-green, like sunlight on leaves.
"Eat your dinner before it gets cold," is all she says, though he knows she was about to say something very different. He obliges her and picks up his fork, but he doesn't let go of her hand, and she doesn't pull away. The rest of the mean is conducted in silence, but it's not hostile at least. He'll take what he can get and work on the rest as time goes on. With a great deal of outside help disaster has been averted, at least for the moment, and he wants to keep it that way.
[H]
Sarah took the bottle of Glenlivet from the cupboard along with a shot glass. She carried them into the dining room and sat at the table, opened the bottle and poured out a healthy two fingers of whiskey. She picked up the glass, held it to the light for a moment.
"Sweet tapdancin' Jesus," she said, and exhaled a long breath. Then she took a substantial sip, savored the smoky fire. When it was gone she poured out another shot, tipped her chair back and listened to the music from the kitchen radio.
"Mind if I join you?" Gene slid into the seat next to hers. Sarah sat motionless for a moment in delighted surprise before she leaned in and kissed him, a lingering salute neither of them hurried.
"You're back early," she said when they came up for air. "Everything's okay?"
"Just fine. Feels like maybe it's a good thing I got here when I did," he said. His dark eyes held worry and affection in equal measure. "What the hell's goin' on? Our house guest is out in the garden perched on your chair like he's waitin' for you to cut him a willow switch."
Sarah sighed and wiped a curl off her forehead. "Lord, what a mess. If I didn't have any grey hairs before this I sure do now."
She told him what had gone down, and kept it simple. At the end Gene leaned back in the chair and took her hand. He brought it to his lips. "You do good work," he said.
"I just herded a buncha cats into a room," she said wryly.
"Do you think before you started sessions with Greg back in Mayfield that he'd have been capable of apologizing for what happened? Or that he'd even try to repair the damage he'd done?" Gene shook his head. "No way. It's down to your help, Sare."
She broke free gently of his hold and touched his cheek with her fingers. He exhaled a long breath and slipped his arm around her waist, brought her close.
"I don't feel like cookin' tonight," Sarah said after a while. "Let's get a pizza and make out on the couch."
"We have company," Gene reminded her.
"Dammit. Guess I'd better call Darryl and get this session over with too." She closed her eyes at the thought of the next hour or two. "Rain check?"
"Hold that thought for tomorrow night when you get home from work. I'll make you some cornbread with beans on the bottom for supper right now," Gene said. "We'll put this sippin' liquor away and share a couple of beers, what do you say?"
"I say that's a fair proposition, tall dark and handsome man," Sarah said. She offered a smile and received a kiss in return. "What did you ever see in me anyway, when we first met?"
"Well, guess I just have to agree with the song they're playin' on the radio," Gene said, a gleam of mischief in his eye. "'She's got her daddy's money/her momma's good looks/more laughs than a stack of comic books'—"
"Oh my god," Sarah said, and hated the blush she felt start, "you're so full of it."
"'A wild imagination/a college education/add it all up, it's a deadly combination'—"
"Will you stop!" She couldn't hide the laugh at his teasing.
"'She's a good bass fisher/a dynamite kisser/and country as a turnip green' . . ." He tugged suggestively on a curl.
Sarah stole a kiss. "Hold that thought," she said, and laughed again when he groaned. "There's a can of pinto beans in the cupboard. Get busy, honey."
"Yes ma'am." He bussed her on the forehead and stood. "'Look who's lookin' at me'," he said with smug pride, and gave an exaggerated jump when she pinched his cheek. "Hey! That's harassment!"
"It'll be a lot more than that if you keep shakin' that gorgeous tight ass in my face," Sarah said, grinning. "Make sure you use buttermilk and no salt."
"On my ass?" Gene inquired, all innocence. Sarah swatted at him.
"Commence cookin', you jamook!"
"Ma'am yes ma'am!" Gene saluted her, collected the whiskey bottle and went into the kitchen. Sarah sat back, well aware she was being managed. She didn't mind in the least. She polished off the last of the Glenlivet and felt the tension she'd carried all day slowly leave her. I hope Greg learns to feel like this when Roz does the same thing for him, she thought, and sent a positive thought her foster son's way before she got up and went outside to collect the next errant child.