The Season of Us Read online

  “Okay, Tommy,” she said. “I’ll call her this evening, though I’m not sure what I’ll be able to find out.”

  “Thanks, Gince,” Tommy said. “Look, don’t tell her I called, okay? She made me promise not to tell you about the electric bill but . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Tommy. I won’t say a word.”

  “Thanks again, Gince,” he said, and Gincy could hear the unmistakable relief in his voice. “I owe you one.”

  * * *

  It was no good. An hour after the disturbing call from her brother, Gincy still couldn’t concentrate on correcting grammar and tightening sentence structure. Her conscience, that annoyingly vigilant thing, was bothering her.

  The fact was that she had not been back to Appleville since her father’s funeral. And apart from her usual biweekly call to her mother and an obligatory call on Thanksgiving, she had had no further correspondence with her. Come to think of it, Gincy realized, Ellen hadn’t sent them a card at Thanksgiving. That was odd. Maybe her mother, always frugal, had simply committed to further belt tightening now that her husband was gone. Or maybe sending a Thanksgiving card was something else that had slipped her mind.

  And as for her brother . . . The last time Gincy had spoken to Tommy was during the course of their father’s funeral, and that communication had been limited to her asking questions like, “Who was that man sitting two rows behind us at the wake, the one with the plaid jacket and bad toupee?” to which Tommy had replied with a shrug. Limited communication wasn’t unusual for the Gannon siblings. Most every time Gincy did engage with her brother, she was left feeling frustrated, annoyed, or downright angry. He just never seemed to listen, and when he did listen he turned everything into a joke or he dismissed what she was saying with a grin and a shrug, even when a more appropriate answer might be “Thanks, Gincy, for asking about my friend’s chemotherapy” or “Hey, Gincy, that’s great news about the new job.” When possible, she avoided conversation with people who routinely provoked such unpleasant feelings in her.

  But now, at the distance of half a year, she remembered that at their father’s funeral Tommy had seemed . . . What was it? Lost? Scared?

  At the time she hadn’t given his state of mind any thought. First there had been the wake to survive, two interminable three-hour viewings a day for two days straight, during which time she and her mother had shaken hands with what seemed like hundreds of sympathetic well-wishers. Then had come the funeral at the church her mother had taken to frequenting in the last few years, followed by a visit to the cemetery, where at her father’s grave the assistant pastor of the church had spoken a few additional words of comfort. Gincy had been too wrapped up in her own feelings of sadness and loss, too concerned with her role as her mother’s representative with the funeral director, and too focused on giving what comfort she could to her children to pay any attention to her brother.

  Thomas Edward Gannon, now forty-five years of age. For the past decade he had lived in a tiny apartment in an aluminum-sided house in the run-down section of Appleville, the owners of which hadn’t bothered to mow the miniscule lawn or to replace several torn screens in the town’s memory. Gincy had been to the apartment only once, and not because she was invited but because one of the other tenants had called the Gannons to say that he was hearing weird noises and smelling strange odors coming from Tommy’s apartment. Gincy and Rick had been paying a flying visit to her parents on their way to Maine for a weekend. and rather than subject the Gannons to whatever unpleasantness they were bound to find at Tommy’s home, they had driven to Birch Lane, fully expecting disaster.

  But what they had found was innocuous enough. After a few minutes of loud knocking, the weird sounds stopped—electronic squeaks and squeals, interspersed with a screaming electric guitar—and Tommy had opened the door, rubbing his eyes and looking mildly puzzled. “Hey,” he said. “Dudes, what are you doing here?” They had explained about the call from the concerned neighbor, at which point Tommy had burst out laughing. “Oh, man, Luke’s so neurotic! He watches way too many cop shows.”

  Rick then asked about the sounds and the smell—more pungent now that the door was open. The sounds had come from a CD put out by a local band. “They do experimental heavy metal stuff,” Tommy had explained. The smell was coming from a batch of incense Tommy’s girlfriend of the moment had made especially for him. “And why didn’t you answer the door right away?” Gincy had demanded. Tommy had just shrugged.

  Tommy had been married once for about a nanosecond. Well, six months, really. That’s how long it had taken his poor wife to realize her mistake and contact a lawyer. He had no kids that he knew of. Gincy remembered his proclaiming that with a hearty laugh, but that had been years ago. Maybe now her brother took the idea of fatherhood more seriously. She wouldn’t know. He was often out of work; Gincy had no idea how he paid his rent. He often couldn’t afford to keep a car and routinely had to bum rides from friends. Back at Ed Gannon’s funeral, he was in possession of a rusty old truck; Gincy suspected it had fallen apart by now.

  But the most frustrating thing about Tommy was his attitude of entitlement and his irresponsibility. Nothing was ever his fault. The world was always against him and had been from the start. Gincy had lost track of the number of times she had heard him say something like, “If only I had some money, everything would be okay. I could really turn things around if only someone would give me a chance.”

  To be fair, Gincy thought, taking a sip of the now cold and muddy coffee, maybe Tommy didn’t feel entitled. Maybe what was behind his view of the world and his place in it was a regrettable ignorance. That or a sense of his own inadequacy, something he could handle only by a big dose of wishful thinking. If that were the case, you could feel sorry for Tommy Gannon.

  The second most frustrating thing about Tommy, at least for his sister, was her mother’s attitude toward him. Ellen Gannon saw her son through rose-colored glasses. Every conversation Gincy had ever had with her mother about Tommy followed pretty much the same script.

  Mrs. Gannon: “Your poor brother has had terrible luck in life.”

  Gincy: “You make your own luck in this world, Mom. He doesn’t even try.”

  Mrs. Gannon: “No woman has ever understood poor Tommy. Look at that woman he married. She was just a cold fish, leaving him like that. Heartless.”

  Gincy: “Mom, Tommy gambled away all of their money—not that there was much of it—within months of the wedding. And then he cheated on her with her best friend.”

  Mrs. Gannon: “You’ve always been too harsh on your little brother, Virginia.”

  Well, Gincy thought now, leaning back in her comfortable chair and remembering how lost or sad Tommy had seemed at Ed Gannon’s funeral, yes, maybe she had been too harsh. But it was hard to place faith in someone who always let you down, even if he couldn’t help but let you down because he didn’t have the courage or the intelligence or the strength to do otherwise. Again, to be fair—something Gincy always tried to be though she failed more often than she would care to admit—her brother hadn’t actually asked her for money since about two years back. But what did that mean, she wondered. That he was making enough money selling drugs or stealing from unattended cash registers to support himself?

  Gincy felt her blood pressure rising. She would definitely wait until she talked to Rick about Tommy’s phone call before getting in touch with Ellen and saying something she would regret. Rick was the rational one in the family. He could calm her down when she got worked up about her mother or her brother. Calming her down when she got worked up about her family—or about anything else—was only one of Rick Luongo’s many, many good points.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Did you hear about the big accident on Storrow Drive this morning?” Rick asked, tossing a handful of chopped garlic into a saucepan.

  “I did,” Gincy said. “It’s a miracle that no one was badly hurt. Something’s got to be done about that section of road. It’s a menace. I guess
I’ll have to write to our city councilor again. Or convince the paper to run another story about it.”

  Rick smiled. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Gincy. You’re not the type to complain about a situation and then do nothing about it.”

  “It’s gotten me in trouble on occasion, hasn’t it?”

  “Only on occasion.”

  “Like the time I tried to intervene when I saw that disgusting man yanking his little girl’s arm. He had her in a death grip, Rick, and right in the middle of the sidewalk. She was crying. What was I supposed to do, just keep walking?”

  “No,” Rick said carefully, “but in a situation like that, when violence is already happening, it might be wiser to call the police instead of launching yourself into the fray.”

  Gincy frowned at her husband. “Maybe.”

  At fifty-six, Rick Luongo was still fit, and his olive complexion and thick dark wavy hair still excited Gincy. It was always fun when she happened to catch sight of him on the street and think, “Now there’s a good-looking guy,” and then to realize a split second later that the good-looking guy was her own husband.

  The two had met back when Rick had come to work as director of daytime programming at the public broadcasting station where Gincy was employed. On his very first day Gincy had spied him eating a jelly donut, oblivious to a great blob of jelly landing on his tie. The tie was printed with images of puppies; it was awful but adorable in its awfulness. She had been immediately drawn to someone who she sensed was completely unself-conscious and unashamedly who he was. Seriously, how many people had the courage to eat a jelly donut in public on the first day at an important job? The fact that on their first date she learned that he, too, hated anchovies and loved the works of Hunter S. Thompson had pretty much sealed the deal, though it had taken her the entire summer to work up the courage to make a real commitment to him.

  It was the best decision she had ever made.

  Currently Rick oversaw both the director of daytime and the director of nighttime programming at the station. The fact that he had been with the same company for twenty years made him a bit of a celebrity in the office. He had survived cutbacks and avoided dangerous personality disputes and unpleasant political coups and had continued to rise in place and esteem. At fifty-six, he found himself in the position of the respected and admired Grand Old Man.

  While Rick continued to prepare dinner—a stir-fry with calamari, vegetables, and plenty of garlic and ginger—Gincy set three places at the large kitchen island.

  “I got a call from Tommy today,” she said.

  Rick looked over his shoulder. “Really? That’s pretty unusual. What did he have to say?”

  “He said that Mom isn’t doing so well. She forgot to pay the electric bill last month. The house smells musty. The milk went sour and she didn’t notice. I have to say, Rick, I’m a bit worried. I’m going to call her this evening.”

  “Good,” Rick said. “From what I’ve seen over the years, Tommy’s not exactly an alarmist, nor is he the most perceptive fellow. If he thinks something is wrong, then it probably is.”

  “I know. It’s just that . . .”

  “Just that what?” Rick asked.

  “Never mind.” How could she admit, even to her husband, the person who knew and understood her best, that along with feeling genuine concern for her mother she was also feeling just a little bit annoyed? It was the Christmas season, the first one without her father, and she knew it was going to be difficult at moments, remembering all the good times they had shared, and she just hadn’t expected a potential crisis with her mother on top of that emotional strain.

  But life was never expected, was it? To survive, you had to adapt. Ed Gannon had always said as much.

  “Mom told Tommy not to tell me about the electric bill,” Gincy told her husband. “What do you think that’s about?”

  Rick shrugged. “She’s embarrassed. You know how proud your mother is. Look, Gincy, you’re sure you didn’t pick up on something wrong the last time you talked to her?”

  “No,” Gincy said, turning away from her husband. “I didn’t.”

  The clanging jingle bell announced that their daughter was home, and a moment later Tamsin joined them in the kitchen, shedding winter garments as she went.

  “Brrr, it’s cold out there!” she announced as she kissed first her mother’s cheek and then her father’s.

  “How was ice-skating?” Gincy asked, retrieving a purple mitten from the floor.

  “Totally fun. I mean, I fell like three times. but no big deal. Julie fell five times!”

  Rick sighed. “Ah, to be young enough to bounce up from a fall on the ice.”

  “I didn’t exactly bounce, Dad. I kind of crawled up. That smells awesome. What are we having?”

  Tamsin was, like both of her parents, about medium height, though possibly still growing. She had dark hair and was very thin, as her mother had been at that age. In terms of her personality, she was definitely more like her father, and Gincy was glad about that. Rick was pleasant. He was reasonable. He was everybody’s friend. Gincy was prickly, though less so than she had been in her youth. She was not always reasonable. And she was not everybody’s friend, nor did she wish to be.

  Over second helpings of stir-fried calamari, vegetables, and jasmine rice, Gincy told Tamsin about her uncle’s call. She and Rick weren’t in the habit of keeping potentially difficult situations from their children. They felt it was better to be aware than to be in ignorance. Ignorance was not bliss; it was ignorance.

  “Poor Grandma,” Tamsin said. “She probably misses Grandpa so much.”

  “We don’t know if whatever’s going on with Grandma has anything to do with Grandpa,” Gincy pointed out.

  “Of course it does,” Tamsin said. “She misses him so much that she’s forgetting things. You get confused when you’re sad. At least, I always do.”

  Mom just misses having someone around to criticize, Gincy thought. Really, she didn’t know how her father had put up with it all those years. If the Gannons were Catholic, she would nominate her father for sainthood, not that she had the least idea of how to go about doing that.

  “Justin is coming home for Christmas, I hope,” Gincy said. It was time to change the subject. Talking about her mother could ruin her appetite, and she took her appetite seriously, especially when Rick had done the cooking.

  Rick nodded. “He’ll let us know exactly when in a day or two. He’s shooting for the twenty-third, but it depends on the job.”

  The job, Gincy thought. It was more than just a job, and Justin had the MBA to prove it. He worked for a private equity group, and the fact that neither of his parents really understood what it was he did didn’t matter, because Justin did understand. To say that she was proud of her stepson would be a vast understatement. Not that she found his taste in girlfriends all that wonderful, but maybe that was just the overprotective mother in her.

  “Is he still seeing that girl, what’s her name, the one with the nose ring?” Gincy asked.

  “It’s called a septum piercing, Mom. And no, they broke up.”

  “Good. I wasn’t looking forward to having a daughter-in-law with a nose ring.”

  “A septum piercing.”

  “Whatever it’s called, it’s disgusting.”

  Tamsin rolled her eyes. “Mom, haven’t you ever heard of live and let live?”

  “Sure. She’s free to have a nose ring. And I’m free to find it disgusting.”

  Rick shrugged. “Your mother has a point,” he said.

  “Not that I would ever tell Justin that I found something about his girlfriend physically objectionable,” Gincy hastened to add. “I’ve spent a good part of my adult life preaching to anyone who will listen that looks mean nothing when judging a person’s character.”

  Tamsin laughed. “And you wouldn’t want Justin to think you were a hypocrite, right, Mom?”

  “Right. And if the nose ring doesn’t bother him, then it’s
none of my business.”

  Tamsin was right, Gincy thought, stabbing a piece of calamari and popping it into her mouth. The last thing she wanted to appear to either of her children was a hypocrite, but especially to her stepson, who had taken such a courageous chance in welcoming her into his life. She would never forget how nervous she had been meeting Justin for the first time all those years ago. But the little boy, who had no memory of the mother who had died so soon after his birth, had actually liked her. She remembered thinking that he must have been born with some sort of antinega-tivity shield. She could be grouchy and awkward when she was younger, but Justin, like his father, had been able to see through the scruffy exterior to the decent person inside.

  “Why did they break up?” Gincy asked now. “Justin and The Nose Ring?”

  “Her name is Lisa, Mom. Anyway, Justin told me Lisa complained that he spent too much time at work and that she felt ignored. So he had to end things. He told her he was sorry but he wasn’t in love with her and that he had a career to build, and then he told me that someday, when he is in love, he’ll spend less time working and more with the girlfriend, but not until then.”

  Gincy nodded. “That’s our boy,” she said. “He’s got his priorities right. Wait, when did he tell you all this?”

  Tamsin screwed up her face in thought. “Like, maybe a week ago?”

  “And you didn’t tell us before now?” Rick asked.

  Tamsin shrugged. “I guess I forgot. Hey, Mom? I can’t find my Chuck Taylor, the left one. No, it’s the right one. Have you seen it?”

  “Have you checked the fridge?”

  “Ha, ha.” And then Tamsin frowned. “Wait. Do you really think it could be in the fridge?”

  Gincy laughed. “No, I don’t,” she said. “But I’ll help you find it after dinner.”