Free Open House by Elizabeth Berg Page A

finally.
    “Sam—”
    “I really feel terrible. And I don’t know who to tell. I don’t have anyone to tell who can understand what you . . . You were my
friend
. But you’re not my friend. I don’t understand how this happened, David. I don’t get it, really; I literally don’t. I mean, you didn’t give me a chance. You never really told me what was wrong.” Crying. Again.
    “Where are you?” His voice is low. Impatient.
    “I . . . In Paris, David. Where do you think I am? I’m home. Goddamnit, I hate you.”
    “Look, I’ll come over after work. We’ll talk.”
    “No! . . . Fine.”
    “I’ll be there about seven.”
    I hang up, embarrassed for myself in front of myself. Oh, what do I want back? What? The bored tolerance of a man who finds not one thing about me charming?
    The doorbell sounds, and I wipe my face, go to look out the peephole. It is King, the man who helped Lydia move in, holding the leashes of three dogs. No, four. Between the legs of the German shepherd is the ridiculous face of a Chihuahua, barking wildly at nothing. There are twin cocker spaniels on braided leashes, sitting patiently as bookends and looking up as though they are the ones that rang the bell.
    I open the door and the dogs all rush forward. King pulls them back, smiles expectantly at me. “Hi. Want to go for a walk?”
    “Well, I’m kind of . . . not dressed. I’m . . .” I see the same accepting kindness in his pleasant face that I saw before. “I’ve been crying,” I say, laughing.
    “Yes, I see that. Come for a walk with me. You won’t cry anymore. Come on, go get your leash.”
    I start to say that I can’t. But why can’t I? I ask him to wait a moment, and go upstairs to dress. I select a blue sweater that is a flattering color for me.
    When I walk down the steps with King, he offers me his arm, and I take it. Such a lovely thing. When did people stop doing it?
    “Where are we going?” I ask. It’s a perfect November day—just cold enough for a coat, the sun bright.
    “Anywhere.” He stops, holds out the tangle of leashes to me. “Dog?”
    I smile, select the pink rhinestoned leash of the Chihuahua, whose hysteria has been silenced by the prospect of something interesting happening.
    “D AD ’ S COMING FOR dinner tonight,” I tell Travis. He is at the kitchen table, listlessly eating a snack of peanut-butter toast. He looks up at me, searching for a way to react.
    “Okay?” I say.
    “What for?”
    “What do you mean, ‘what for?’ To eat.”
    He shrugs, pushes his plate away. “I’m done.”
    “What do you think we should have for dessert?” He’ll help me, Travis loves to help make dessert.
    “I don’t care. What, is he moving back here?”
    “Well.” I put his plate in the sink, run water on it. “No. He’s not moving back. He’s just coming for dinner.”
    Travis nods, picks up his book bag, and starts out of the room.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Homework.”
    “Travis?”
    He turns, annoyed.
    “I think you should—you know, remember that this was not my idea. I mean Dad moving out and everything. None of it was my idea.”
    “I know.”
    “Well, you act. . . . I don’t know why you’re so mad at
me
.” But even as I say it, I realize I do know. He’s mad at me for the same reason I’m mad at myself. Because although this was not my idea, it is my fault.
    “I have to go do my homework.”
    “Fine.”
    I open the refrigerator, pull out the steak. I’m making beef Stroganoff, David’s favorite.
God, that’s good!
he said, last time I made it.
You can cook, honey; that you can do
. I slice the meat thinly, look out the window at the tree branches swaying in the wind. It’s supposed to storm tonight.
A power outage, and David stays to take
care of us, how could he leave?
    I rinse off the mushrooms, recall King pointing out a leaf on one of the trees we passed. “Maple,” he said. “Their leaves look too big for the tree, don’t you think? Like kittens’