A Good Deal
by Chris Yodice
part 1
Nobody spoke to the man sitting in the corner. He remained quiet amid the movement of the room and did nothing to draw attention. No one remarked that, even though it was quite warm, he kept his collar buttoned, his tie tight, and he did not take off his hat. In fact, no one took any notice of him at all.
The opposite was true of Mary Albene. She spoke with nearly everyone and they all watched her closely. When she sat, there was immediate response: What could they get for her? How could they help? When she got up — usually to move into the kitchen and back — nobody stopped her; they got out of her way or they followed, sometimes offering more assistance and sometimes simply hovering in orbit around her. Mary was in such good spirits, they all said — considering. She was so strong and holding up so well — considering. She inquired after her guests’ families and their own lives; so thoughtful. Considering.
What was being considered, of course, was that her husband was dying in the bedroom.
Michael Albene had fallen ill recently and had declined quickly. This was unexpected but not shocking. Michael had kept in relatively good health, but the time of his apex — if his somewhat anticlimactic life had had an apex — was decades past. He and Mary had three adult children, independent now and approaching their own primes. The sickness had come, not at a crawl — that slow spread that allows one time to get his effects in order, but that is accompanied by such pain and prolonged sadness that it is hardly worth the convenience of being around long enough to efficiently sign a few forms — but at a strong run and now, only weeks after the first symptoms, the race would be done by the next morning. In these circumstances, it was spoken with both surprise and tentative smiles that Michael, too, was in such good spirits.
Besides Mary and the children, those in the house were mostly family and close friends. They numbered fifteen or twenty and had spent the afternoon doing what people did in such situations. They comforted; they consoled; they ate. And, being civilized people, they had brought more food — and of more types — than could reasonably be eaten by twice their number plus a ravenous elk. Most of them took time throughout the day to enter the room where Michael lay, in and out of sleep, sit in the chair by his bedside, and say their goodbyes. These goodbyes were explicit and tearful and subtle and avoiding and quick and long. Through them all, Michael seemed at ease.
In the living room in small groups and, less often, over the sink in the kitchen while Mary was otherwise occupied, the guests talked to each other. Inevitably, the topic turned to Michael.
“He only just retired,” said one.
“But he enjoyed his job,” said another
“Did he?” A cousin.
“He had been an artist.” An old friend.
“And he ended up in sales.” The first.
“Not sales. He hated sales.” A different friend.
“Okay, administration. But in a sales firm.” And on.
“He was happy.” And on.
“Was he?” And on.
“He painted until the kids were little. He could have been something.”
“And then he stopped?”
“Yes, he just stopped.”
“He just stopped?”
“Yes. He was happy. He made pictures for the boys and for Valerie. Watercolors sometimes. He drew for them.”
“He never talked about it again.”
“He did.”
“But he must have missed it.”
“He didn’t miss it.”
“Why’d he stop?”
“He just stopped.”
* * *
The hours passed in this fashion until Mary slowly and tactfully willed most of her guests home. Some hesitated, but almost all complied. With only a small handful of others remaining, the conversation began again. When the children cried, their mother spoke.
“Your father was a good person,” Mary said. No one knew if her use of the past tense was intentional here. “And he was so talented.” Here, it felt as if it surely was.
She looked to a painting that hung in the room. It was mostly yellows and greens and it had always been there. The children barely noticed it growing up. Valerie stared at it now for a long time. A long-buried memory came to her: her father telling her once — with a smile — “That was the best thing I ever made. Until you.” Valerie had laughed and run away.
“It’s beautiful,” Valerie said.
Mary spoke again. “Sometimes I feel like he should have been more. At some point, he just seemed to stop trying. As if he was happy because the three of you were happy. That’s it.”
She hadn’t always understood this. She loved their children as much as he did, but she often thought of what could have been. All those years ago. If he had only pushed a little bit harder for a little bit longer. When he had been so close to success at a level most never even came near.
Michael never seemed to regret, not through the years of school trips and homework and driving the children here-and-there on command with little thanks, years in which his former brilliance had no outlet and dreams of galleries and recognition seemed to have dissipated completely. He did not seem to regret now. But facing his last moments, Mary still wondered, as she thought of his countless commutes to a gray building on gray days and of his tan pants and brown shoes. What had happened to the vibrant colors of his paintings?
In their last conversation she had asked him: “Are you sorry?”
“Sorry for what?” He seemed genuinely surprised at the question.
“For what you didn’t get to do.”
“There is nothing that I didn’t get to do. I had a choice and I chose what I wanted. I’m not sorry at all.”
He smiled and said, “I remember us.”
“You gave me your name,” she said, and smiled back.
“I gave you my name,” he repeated. “And you’ve worn it so well.”
* * *
Soon, the boys took their turns by their father’s side in his low-lit bedroom. After them, Valerie. She lowered herself gently into the chair, trying not to make any noise.
Michael opened his eyes. “Well, hello there, my Very Very Valerie.”
She had sat here daily for the past week; his greeting was the same each time. She leaned forward and considered the snippets of conversation she had overheard all through the day. The picture of her father as young, focused, and driven — as someone extraordinary in the eyes of others — was contrary to the person she knew. She had never seen this other man, had never even had a sense that he existed. And she had never looked deeper, spending all of her years satisfied with the constant presence and love of someone whose only purpose had seemed to be to provide these things.
“Dad,” she said, “what did you really want to do with your life?”
“I wanted so much more when I was young,” he said. “Then I realized that I didn’t want anything other than what I already had. And what I had, I just wanted to make sure was safe.”
These earnest words were followed by a deep breath. He was quiet then, as if nothing more specific was necessary. To Valerie, it sounded like the whole truth.
“But I want more,” she said. “For others sometimes. But also for me.” She thought of her own dreams and everything that she hoped to accomplish. This made her feel guilty; she never had before.
“There is nothing wrong with wanting,” he said. “You should want. One day you may decide that you want different things. Or less. Or even more. Or not. And any of those will be okay as long as you’re happy. That’s what it was all for.”
In hearing his words, she felt her misgivings subside.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“I am,” she said.
He had asked each of the boys the same question, and they had answered the same way. He hadn’t needed to ask; he knew. He had watched them for years to make sure that he was getting what he had bargained for; he watched them still. He saw joy often in their faces and their actions, contentment in the moments in between.
And he was so glad to see such goodness. For goodness had not been part of the agreement: the agreement was for happiness and health. So he took pride in the goodness; it showed that he and Mary had, through their own efforts, ushered three bright lights through the sometimes dark byways of the world. He was confident that they would shine in his stead.
“I can’t say goodbye,” Valerie said. She sat, holding his hand.
“Then don’t,” her father said. “Just kiss my head and tell me to sleep tight.”
She did as he asked. Although she found it very hard to say even those two words, it was a perfect parting.
Valerie left the room and joined her mother and brothers, together in the kitchen. Michael was now alone.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Chris Yodice
