Walk Two Moons

39 HOMECOMING

The next morning, Phoebe phoned, begging me to come over. “I can’t stand it,” she said. “I want a witness.”

“For what?”

“I just want a witness.”

“Did you tell your father? About your mother and—”

“Are you kidding?” Phoebe said. “You should see him. He and Prudence spent all last night and this morning cleaning the house. They’ve scrubbed floors and bathrooms, they dusted like fiends, they did laundry and ironing, and they vacuumed. Then they took a good look around. My father said, ‘Maybe it looks too good. Your mother will think we can function without her.’ So they messed things up. He’s very put out with me that I wouldn’t help.”

I did not want to be a witness to anything, but I felt guilty for running away the day before, and so I agreed. When I got to her house, Phoebe, Mr. Winterbottom, and Prudence were sitting there staring at each other.

“Didn’t she say what time she was coming?” Mr. Winterbottom asked.

Prudence said, “No she did not, and I wish you would quit acting as if it is my fault that she did not say more than she did.”

Mr. Winterbottom was a wreck. He jumped up to straighten a pillow, sat back down, and then he leaped up to mess up the pillow again. He went out in the yard and walked around in circles. He changed his shirt twice.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m here,” I said.

“Why would I mind?” Mr. Winterbottom said.

Just as I thought they would all go stark raving mad, a taxi pulled up outside. “I can’t look,” Mr. Winterbottom said, escaping to the kitchen.

“I can’t look either,” Phoebe said. She followed her father, and I followed Phoebe.

“Well, gosh,” Prudence said. “I don’t know what has gotten into everybody. Aren’t you excited to see her?”

From the kitchen, we heard Prudence open the front door. We heard Mrs. Winterbottom say, “Oh sweetie—” Mr. Winterbottom wiped the kitchen counter. We heard Prudence gasp and her mother say, “I’d like you to meet Mike.”

“Mike?” Mr. Winterbottom said. He was quite red in the face. I was glad there was no axe in the house or I am fairly certain he would have picked it up and headed straight for Mike.

Phoebe said, “Now, Dad, don’t do anything too rash—”

“Mike?” he repeated.

Mrs. Winterbottom called, “George? Phoebe?” We heard her say to Prudence, “Where are they? Didn’t you tell them we were coming?”

Mr. Winterbottom took a deep breath. “Phoebe, I’m not sure you or Sal should be around for this.”

“Are you kidding?” Phoebe said.

He took another deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here we go.” He stood up straight and tall and walked through to the living room. Phoebe and I followed.

Honest and truly, I think Phoebe nearly fainted dead away on the carpet. There were two reasons for this. The first one was that Mrs. Winterbottom looked different. Her hair was not only short but also quite stylish. She was wearing lipstick, mascara, and a little blush on her cheeks, and her clothes were altogether unlike anything I had ever seen her in: a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and flat black shoes. Dangling from her ears were thin silver hoop earrings. She looked magnificent, but she did not look like Phoebe’s mother.

The second reason that I think Phoebe nearly fainted dead away was that there was Mike Bickle, Phoebe’s potential lunatic, in her own living room. It was one thing to think he was coming, and another thing to actually see him standing there.

I didn’t know what to think. For a second, I thought maybe Mike had kidnapped Mrs. Winterbottom and was bringing her back for some ransom money or maybe he was now going to do away with the rest of us. But I kept thinking of seeing them together the day before, and besides, Mrs. Winterbottom looked too terrific to have been held captive. She did look frightened, but not of Mike. She seemed afraid of her husband.

“Dad,” Phoebe whispered, “that’s the lunatic.”

“Oh Phoebe,” her mother said, pressing her fingers to her cheek, and when she made that familiar gesture, Phoebe looked as if her heart was splitting into a thousand pieces. Mrs. Winterbottom hugged Phoebe, but Phoebe did not hug her back.

Mr. Winterbottom said, “Norma, I hope you are going to explain exactly what is going on here.” He was trying to make his voice firm, but it trembled.

Prudence stared at Mike. She seemed to find him handsome and was flirting with him. She fluffed her hair away from her neck.

Mrs. Winterbottom tried to put her arms around Mr. Winterbottom, but he pulled away. “I think we deserve an explanation,” he said. He, too, stared at Mike.

Was she in love with Mike? He seemed awfully, awfully young—not much older than Prudence.

Mrs. Winterbottom sat down on the sofa and began to cry. It was a terrible, terrible moment. It was hard to make any sense out of what she said at first. She was talking about being respectable and how maybe Mr. Winterbottom would never forgive her, but she was tired of being so respectable. She had tried very, very hard all these years to be perfect, but she had to admit she was quite unperfect. She said there was something that she had never told her husband, and she feared he would not forgive her for it.

Mr. Winterbottom’s hands trembled. He did not say anything. Mrs. Winterbottom motioned for Mike to join her on the sofa. Mr. Winterbottom cleared his throat several times, but still he said nothing.

Mrs. Winterbottom said, “Mike is my son.”

Mr. Winterbottom, Prudence, Phoebe, and I all said, “Your son?”

Mrs. Winterbottom stared at her husband. “George, I know you will think I am not—or was not—respectable, but it was before I met you, and I had to give him up for adoption and I could hardly bear to think of it and—”

Mr. Winterbottom said, “Respectable? Respectable? The hell with respectable!” Mr. Winterbottom did not normally swear.

Mrs. Winterbottom stood up. “Mike found me, and at first I was frightened of what that would mean. I’ve lived such a tiny life—”

Phoebe took her father’s hand.

“—and I had to go away and sort things out. I haven’t yet met Mike’s adoptive parents, but Mike and I have spent a lot of time talking, and I’ve been thinking—”

Mike looked down at his feet.

“Are you going to leave?” Mr. Winterbottom asked.

Mrs. Winterbottom looked as if he had slapped her. “Leave?”

“Again, I mean,” Mr. Winterbottom said.

“Only if you want me to,” she said. “Only if you cannot live with such an unrespectable—”

“I said to hell with respectable!” Mr. Winterbottom said. “What’s all this about respectable? It’s not respectable I’m concerned about. I’m more concerned that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me about any of this.”

Mike stood up. “I knew it wouldn’t work,” he said.

Mr. Winterbottom said, “I have nothing against you, Mike—I just don’t know you.” He looked at his wife. “I don’t think I know you, either.”

I was wishing I was invisible. Outside, the leaves were falling to the ground, and I was infinitely sad, sad down to my bones. I was sad for Phoebe and her parents and Prudence and Mike, sad for the leaves that were dying, and sad for myself, for something I had lost.

I saw Mrs. Partridge through the window, standing on Phoebe’s front walk.

Mr. Winterbottom said, “I think we all need to sit down and talk. Maybe we can sort something out.” Then he did what I think was a noble thing. He went over to Mike and shook his hand and said, “I did always think a son would be a nice addition to this family.”

Mrs. Winterbottom looked relieved. Prudence smiled at Mike. Phoebe stood motionless, off to the side.

“I’d better go,” I said.

Everyone turned to me as if I had just dropped through the roof. Mr. Winterbottom said, “Sal, I’m sorry, I truly am.” To Mike, he said, “Sal is like another member of the family.”

Mrs. Winterbottom said, “You’re mad at me, aren’t you, Phoebe?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “I most certainly am.” Phoebe took my sleeve and pulled me toward the door. “When you all decide exactly how many people are in this family, let me know.”

We stepped out on the porch just as Mrs. Partridge placed a white envelope on the steps.