The kitchen window looks out over the rear yard. A line of Lombardy poplars borders a narrow creek that marks the back property line, and beyond that is a long-neglected apple orchard with high grass that must be sickled from time to time. The trees are old, sadly in need of pruning, and festooned with bagworms.
Ben is out there, all eight years of him. He has a wicker wash basket in his rusty red wagon, and he's going from tree to tree picking the best apples he can find within reach. It's too late in the season -- the pickings are slim.
Dear Ben. Our son -- begotten when Catherine and I were on loving terms. She's in the workroom, marking her school papers. She doesn't have to do it now; she's got all weekend to do it. Instead, she could be out here with me in the kitchen -- watching Ben. But if I were to go in and ask her, "How are you getting on?", she'd get up and come in here and look out the kitchen window at Ben and then leave me standing here. We're never in the same room at the same time. We're never together with Ben any more.
I wonder if Catherine told him to go out and pick some apples. If she did, it could mean she's planning to make a pie. I wouldn't know; how could I? I'd have to ask Ben. Dear Ben . . . when he looks at me with those brown eyes, Catherine's eyes . . . there is a sadness and a worry. As if to say, "What will become of us? Why can't I have you both together?" What can I say to him?
He's coming back now, picking his way through the tall grass. He's lost weight since the summer. Seems a little slimmer, but then he's growing, too . . . getting to that age when he'll no longer be a little boy.
"How'd you do, Ben?"
"Oh, not so good, they're pretty wormy. There's paper wasps out there, too. Hey, Dad, can you and Mommy and me go down to the overlook?"
We live in Guilford, about a mile from the shore. There's a high bluff at the edge of the sound, and you can see all the way across to the North Fork of Long Island. A few years ago we'd picnic there, fly kites, and watch the ships head west to the city ports in Queens.
"Sure, Ben. Right after lunch, O.K.? It'll be cold there this time of year though. Maybe Mommy won't want to go . . . why don't you ask her?"
There's a look of doubt and apprehension. He's afraid Catherine will say no. He wants the three of us to go together . . . he's trying to hold us together with his tiny hands. He doesn't want to go with me; he doesn't want to go with Catherine; he wants the three of us to go . . . together . . . the way we used to.
He pulls over the stool to reach the taps in the kitchen sink and pulls up his sleeves. He reaches and turns on the tap to wash his hands, then he turns and looks at me. His lower lip is quivering, then he rests his head on his hands.
"Oh Ben, Ben, don't worry . . . it'll be O.K., Ben, I promise you . . . I swear . . . I . . . " I go to him and hold him awkwardly. He holds his hands under the warm water and turns his head away. I can feel his tiny body shaking with sobs. How can we do this to him? How can Catherine and I be so selfish . . . to do such a thing to Ben?
"You okay, Ben?" Catherine is standing in the kitchen doorway.
Ben is a brave little boy. His sobbing stops, and he turns his head from both of us and rests it against the sink.
"Ask her, Daddy."
"Ben wants us to go to the overlook -- you know, out on the bluff, where you can see across the Sound?"
"I heard the two of you in here . . . did you find any apples, Ben?" She turns her brown eyes on me, the eyes I used to love . . . now shielded behind her steel-rimmed glasses. I look for the spark of love that used to be there, but the light has gone out of them.
Ben has not fully recovered so I answer for him. "Pretty slim pickings out there; I think the wasps chased him home."
"He can answer for himself, can't you Ben? You don't need Daddy to talk for you -- do you?"
"Can we go, Mom . . . please?"
"Mommy's pretty busy, Ben . . . but we'll see, right after lunch, O.K.? What do you want for lunch, Ben, soup?"
The three of us have barley soup for lunch. I can't remember how long it's been since we've eaten at this kitchen table together. Ben sits in the same place he sat as a four-year old. The place mat he eats on covers a multitude of scars, scratches, and stains as though some wild animal had eaten there years ago. That was about the time my work-load began. The nights in the city extending into weekends . . . I lost track of things here. Became a stranger in my own family, and I'm sorry to say I missed a lot of Ben's growing up in those four years.
I wasn't here; I must admit I wasn't here. Not when the boiler broke down. Not when the chrysanthemums needed weeding, and not the week of the ice storm . . . where was I? I look across the table at Ben. He is looking at both of us in turn . . . searchingly. He is bewildered; he can't understand why his love alone isn't strong enough to hold the three of us together.
I venture a word, "It's nice having lunch together." Catherine gets up and gathers our plates and stacks them in the dishwasher.
"Well, come on, get your coat on, Ben, you'd better bring your boots too; it might be muddy out there. I haven't got all day." It's a start. There are no epiphanies in our lives, no sudden revelations. If we are to make it, we will make it with inchworm slowness. It took us a long time to get ourselves in the mess we're in, and if we are to get out of it, it will come a day at a time.
But here on this lovely afternoon with the deep blue, high altitude sky that spans the Sound from Connecticut to Long Island, we have taken our first timid step. We talk, Catherine and I, for the first time in more than a month. Our voices are not edgy. Not tinged with rancor.
She has removed her glasses and sits on the cold turf with her knees pulled up to her chin. Ben is holding his own with the kite I flew for him. It needs a longer tail perhaps; at times it skirts perilously close to the ground . . . but it adds to the thrill of it all.
"Kate?"
"What?"
"We can't do it, Kate. We can't do it to Ben. We can't do it to ourselves either."
"I don't want to do it, John."
I am suddenly filled with an unexplainable anger, a rage I can barely contain inside me. I turn from Catherine and look at Ben. Who the hell do we think we are!? How can we put Ben through this?
"I want you to know this, Kate. Know this!" I stand looking at Ben but talking to Catherine. "I love you . . . my mind is full of broken things. Broken windows, busted furnaces, and a thousand things I meant to do and never did. But know this, please, for God's sake know this . . . before it's too late."
I don't hear her get up, but I suddenly feel her arms about me from behind, her body pressed against me. My vision blurs and Ben is difficult to see, but I can see that he's running towards us, and as he does, the kite flies higher and higher.