“Beverly, do you remember the balloon provision?”
“Not clearly.”
“The term expired sixteen months ago.”
I closed my eyes.
“Patrick hasn’t made a payment.”
“No.”
“And I’ve been allowing it to roll informally.”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to keep doing that?”
“No.”
I looked through the window above my sink.
The backyard was brown with winter. A small dent was still visible in the fence where Patrick had hit it with a baseball when he was thirteen.
“Then I’m not extending it again.”
Barbara was quiet.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“This is different from canceling monthly help.”
“I know.”
“This will force them to deal with the principal.”
“I know.”
“Then I’ll prepare the notice.”
Four days after Christmas, I answered Patrick’s call.
“Mom. Thank God.”
I waited.
“We’ve been worried.”
“Have you?”
“Of course.”
His voice had the strained patience of somebody trying to begin a difficult conversation from the reasonable side of it.
“Everything suddenly stopped. Vanessa thought maybe something happened to your account.”
“Nothing happened to my account.”
“Then why would you cancel everything without talking to us first?”
I let the question remain between us.
Then I said, “Patrick, you didn’t hang up.”
Nothing.
“I heard you.”
Still nothing.
“I heard exactly what you said.”
“Mom.”
“I heard everybody laugh too.”
The silence changed.
He was no longer confused.
“I can explain.”
“I don’t need an explanation today.”
“It wasn’t what it sounded like.”
“It sounded like my son telling a room full of people that I believed paying your expenses entitled me to attend Christmas.”
He exhaled.
“I was frustrated.”
“With me?”
“With everything.”
“What had I done?”
No answer.
“Patrick, I asked once what time I should come.”
“I know.”
“You never invited me.”
“I know.”
“I had gifts here for your children.”
“I know.”
Each answer became quieter.
Finally, he said, “I’m sorry.”
I believed he was sorry.
I did not yet know what he was sorry about.
Hurting me?
Being overheard?
Losing the payments?
Those are different kinds of regret.
“I want you and Vanessa at my house Saturday at ten,” I said.
“Mom.”
“I also want Gerald and Carol here.”
“Why?”
“Because they were in the room.”
“Please don’t turn this into some huge confrontation.”
“I’m not planning one.”
“Then why does everybody need to be there?”
“Because I am done having separate versions of the same family conversation.”
He stopped.
Then he asked, “Will Barbara be there?”
The question told me he remembered exactly what sat in my filing cabinet.
“Yes.”
A long pause.
“We’ll be there.”
Saturday morning was cold and bright.
I was awake before five.
That was an old habit from school administration. Whenever something difficult was scheduled, my body decided I needed two additional hours to prepare for it.
I cleaned a kitchen that was already clean.
I set out my blue-and-ivory dishes.
My mother had given me that set after I received my first principal position. She had bought it one place setting at a time because she could not afford the full set all at once.
I made coffee and put simple pastries on a tray.
Not because I expected the meeting to be pleasant.
Because this was still my house, and that was how I received people in it.
Barbara arrived at 9:30 carrying a leather portfolio.
She looked at the dining room table.
“You expecting the governor?”
“I needed something to do with my hands.”
She took off her coat.
“You all right?”
“I’ll tell you afterward.”
Patrick and Vanessa arrived first.
Patrick hugged me briefly.
Vanessa did not.
Her eyes went immediately to Barbara’s portfolio.