Man in the Middle

He put a gentle hand behind her head and applied a guiding pressure. She allowed her head to rotate, but fixated on her hands resting on her lap. She still wore her work clothes—a dark blue jacket with matching skirt. In the way she dressed, she looked the part of bright young professional. With a quivering lip, swollen eyes, and shaking jaw, she exhibited a fragile ego that seemed ready for transition into monumental depression.

“Katie. We’re friends. More than friends. Tell me.”

“Are we, Peter? Are we more than friends?” she asked with more than just hope in her voice.

Peter understood she had meant the expression differently than he had. “Yes, we are,” he said, praying he would not regret the white lie.

“I had a meeting with Father this evening.”

“I saw you leave his office. He told you something?” Peter dreaded what she would say next.

“Yes. A few things . . .” She stopped. Her chest heaved.

“You know about the affair between my mother and your father.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

Peter turned off the engine. The vapid air had cooled and now bordered on cold. The light from a street lamp cast Kate’s silhouette against a row of trees sashaying in the moonlight. The couple remained parked at the curb, along a cul-de-sac.

“Are you hurt by knowing? Are you upset I didn’t tell you?” he asked.

“A little hurt, but not upset about you keeping it from me.” For a moment, the car held a pre-storm calm. Kate broke the silence: “Peter?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Do you feel betrayed by your mother?”

“I’m not proud of what she did,” he said, carefully considering his words. “Mom was in deep grief when my father died. He had suffered for two years with stomach cancer. In his prime, Dad was over six feet tall, weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, and was the strongest man I ever knew. I mean, he was a man’s man. All- American wide receiver in college, a sprinter, and personally courageous. For me, Paul Bunyan and George Washington all rolled into one. Then, just before he died, he became so weak I had to carry him to the bathroom to use the toilet. He weighed nothing.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

“My father dreamed big dreams. He moved from business to business and failure to failure. Despite that, Mom wanted him to live forever, even if he’d been only a shell of the man she married. She reached out to your father, and I don’t blame anyone for their weaknesses—I’ve got enough failings of my own... So no, I don’t feel betrayed.”

“I don’t blame your mother,” Kate said. “But I do blame Father—he took advantage of a woman in need. I know what it’s like to be taken advantage of. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my feelings for people never go away.”

Peter said nothing and listened to Kate’s deep breaths. A few moments later, she began again: “There’s something else. My father’s confession had nothing to do with feelings of shame.”

Peter gave a puzzled look.

“Father told me these things because . . .”

The bucket seats restricted him some, but Peter turned as much in her direction as he could. His right arm draped across the divide created by the stick shift. His hand rested on her left shoulder. He squeezed.

“I need you to explain something to me,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

“Why did you rent your mother’s house to someone you didn’t know, for essentially nothing?”

“That’s a strange question.”

“Please. I need to know.”

Peter paused in thought. “I had to—that’s the simple answer.”

“Why?” she asked.

“A compulsion brought on by the spirit of my mother. She was compassionate and would have wanted her belongings to benefit someone in need.”

“Is that how you feel?”

Peter sighed and looked out the front window towards the lights of a nearby high-rise hotel. “I’ll try to explain, even if I don’t know why you’re asking.”

“Thank you.”

“I guess at first I felt sorry for the man—who wouldn’t? He’s an African-American father, with four kids, little formal education, and less than no money. He answered my rental ad. He expected a job to come through and planned to use his salary to move into a better neighborhood. He’d have paid his entire income to move his family out of Southeast San Diego. The drugs, the gangs, the violence. Clairemont isn’t exactly La Jolla or Del Mar, but as middle class neighborhoods go these days, it’s a hell of a lot better than where he was.”

“He didn’t get the job?” Kate leaned into Peter.

Peter shook his head. “It devastated him . . . No, I take that back. I think it humiliated him. And I had other reasons. I thought about Drew and his family. His father took off before Drew turned six. His mom went on welfare and hated it. If not for a football scholarship, he’d have been another victim of ‘no-thank-you.’ A black man with no hope of escaping the neighborhood. Now he’s in medical school. He’ll save lives and make a difference.” On a nearby street, a siren wailed. Peter waited until the sounds faded before continuing. “Then, when I couldn’t get a job, I would have been in deep trouble without your father’s help. I told Mr. Jefferson—that’s my tenant—he and his family could live there for free, but he’s a proud man. Said he’d pay me a hundred a month and work on improving the property. In the first two weeks, he’s already made good on his promise. In between looking for jobs, he spends his time fixing and sprucing . . .” Peter felt he had failed to explain himself. “This is a long-winded way of saying Mr. Jefferson is a good man and deserved a break.”

“You are special, Peter.”

“Not really, but thanks for the kind words. Mind if I ask you something?”

The way she said “No, I don’t” came across as maybe, maybe not.

“Why did you need to know these things?”

“Something Father said. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“What?”

“He said you’d change. Turn into . . . never mind, Peter. Take me home.”

Peter could see her head moving in the fractured light. He understood she was still upset. “Of course. We can be at your apartment in ten minutes.”

“No. To your apartment.”

“I . . . I don’t think we’re ready—”

“I don’t care if you don’t love me,” she said. “And I won’t tell you I love you. Hold me. If you don’t feel like making love, don’t. Just hold me.”

“I—”

“Please.”

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Peter’s apartment. When they entered, they had to weave their way around packed boxes.

“I’m moving tomorrow—I already told you that, didn’t I?”

She nodded.

Just then, Henry came sauntering in. When he looked up and saw a stranger, he stopped and cocked his head.

“That’s the infamous old man Henry,” Peter announced.

“He doesn’t look so old. Come here, you handsome devil.”

Kate bent down on one knee and put her hand out. Without hesitation, Henry strolled forward. Kate greeted him with a palm down his back. She then took a finger and began to scratch behind Henry’s ear. He purred and plopped on his side.

“You’ve made a friend for life,” Peter said.

“Are you talking about you or the cat?” she asked, half-seriously.