Ballinger repeated the name.
"Say the whole name."
"I've got it, sweetheart. Why am I saying it?"
"Dad, I'm bringing him home with me. We're getting married."
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
"Dad? Did you hear me?"
"I'm here," he said.
Again, he couldn't say anything.
"Yes," he said. "That's - that's some news."
"That's all you can say?"
"Well, I mean - Melanie - this is sort of quick, isn't it?" he said.
"Not that quick. How long did you and Mom wait?'
"I don't remember. Are you measuring yourself by that?"
"You waited six months, and you do too remember. And this is five months. And we're not measuring anything. William and I have known each other longer than five months, but we've been together - you know, as a couple - five months. And I'm almost twenty-three, which is two years older than Mom was. And don't tell me it was different when you guys did it."
"No," he heard himself say. "It's pretty much the same, I imagine?"
"Well?" she said.
"Well," Ballinger said. "I'm - I'm very happy for you."
"You don't sound happy."
"I'm happy. I can't wait to meet him."
"Really? Promise? You're not just saying that?"
"It's good news, darling. I mean I'm surprised, of course. It'll take a little getting used to. The - the suddenness of it and everything. I mean, your mother and I didn't even know you were seeing anyone. But no, I'm - I'm glad. I can't wait to meet the young man."
"Well, and now there's something else you have to know."
"I'm ready," John Ballinger said. He was standing in the kitchen of the house she hadn't seen yet, and outside the window his wife, Mary, was weeding in the garden, wearing a red scarf and a white muslin blouse and jeans, looking young - looking, even, happy, though for a long while there had been between them, in fact, very little happiness.
"Well, this one's kind of hard," his daughter said over the thousand miles of wire. "Maybe we should talk about it later."
"No, I'm sure I can take it whatever it is," he said.
The truth was that he had news of his own to tell. Almost a week ago, he and Mary had agreed on a separation. Some time for them both to sort things out. They had decided not to say anything about it to Melanie until she arrived. But now Melanie had said that she was bringing someone with her.
She was hemming and hawing on the other end of the line: "I don't know, see, Daddy, I - God. I can't find the way to say it, really."
He waited. She was in Chicago, where they had sent her to school more than four years ago, and where after her graduation she had stayed, having landed a job with an independent newspaper in the city. In March, Ballinger and Mary had moved to this small house in the middle of Charlottesville, hoping that a change of scene might help things. It hadn't; they were falling apart after all these years.
"Dad," Melanie said, sounding helpless.
"Honey, I'm listening."
"OK, look," she said. "Will you promise you won't react?"
"How can I promise a thing like that, Melanie?"
"You're going to react, then. I wish you could just promise me you wouldn't."
"Darling," he said, "I've got something to tell you, too. Promise me you won't react."
She said "Promise" in that way the young have of being absolutely certain what their feelings will be in some future circumstance.
"So," he said. "Now, tell me whatever it is." And a thought struck through him like a shock. "Melanie, you're not - you're not pregnant, are you?"
She said, "How did you know?"
He felt something sharp move under his heart. "Oh, Lord. Seriously?"
"Jeez," she said. "Wow. That's really amazing."
"You're - pregnant."
"Right. My God. You're positively clairvoyant, Dad."
"I really don't think it's a matter of any clairvoyance, Melanie, from the way you were talking. Are you - is it sure?"
"Of course it's sure. But - well, that isn't the really hard thing. Maybe I should just wait."
"Wait," he said. "Wait for what?"
"Until you get used to everything else."
He said nothing. She was fretting on the other end, sighing and starting to speak and then stopping herself.
"I don't know," she said finally, and abruptly he thought she was talking to someone in the room with her.
"Honey, do you want me to put your mother on?"
"No, Daddy. I wanted to talk to you about this first. I think we should get this over with."
"Get this over with Melanie, what're we talking about here? I mean maybe I should put your mother on." He thought he might try a joke. "After all," he added, "I've never been pregnant."
"It's not about being pregnant. You guessed that."
He held the phone tight against his ear. Through the window, he saw his wife stand and stretch, massaging the small of her back with one gloved hand, Oh, Mary.
"Are you ready?" his daughter said.
"Wait," he said. "Wait a minute. Should I be sitting down? I'm sitting down." He pulled a chair from the table and settled into it. He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, or perhaps it was the static wind he so often heard when talking on these new phones. "OK," he said, feeling his throat begin to close. "Tell me."
"William's somewhat older than I am," she said. "There." She sounded as though she might hyperventilate.
He left a pause. "That's it?"
"Well, it's how much."
She seemed to be trying to collect herself. She breathed, paused. "This is even tougher than I thought it was going to be."
"You mean you're going to tell me something harder than the fact that you're pregnant?"
She was silent.
"I didn't expect you to be this way about it," she said.
"Honey, please just tell me the rest of it."
"Well, what did you mean by that, anyway?"
"Melanie, you said this would be hard."
"Tell me, sweetie. Please?"
"I'm going to." She took a breath. "Dad, William's sixty - he's - he's sixty - sixty-three years old."
Ballinger stood. Out in the garden his wife had got to her knees again, pulling crabgrass out of the bed of tulips. It was a sunny near-twilight, and all along the shady street people were working in their little orderly spaces of grass and flowers.
"Did you hear me, Daddy? It's perfectly all right, too, because he's really a young sixty-three, and very strong and healthy, and look at George Burns."
"George Burns," Ballinger said. "George - George Burns? Melanie, I don't understand."
"Come on, Daddy, stop it."
"No, what're you telling me?" His mind was blank.
"I said William is sixty-three."
"Dad. My fiance."
"Wait, Melanie. You're saying your fiance, the man you're going to marry, he's sixty-three?"
"A young sixty-three," she said.
"You didn't say six feet three?"
She was silent.
"Honey, this is a joke, right? You're playing a joke on me."
"It is not a - it's not that. God," she said. "I don't believe this."
"You don't believe -" he began. "You don't believe -"
"Dad," she said. "I told you -" Again, she seemed to be talking to someone else in the room with her. Her voice trailed off.
"Melanie," he said. "Talk into the phone."
"I know it's hard," she told him. "I know it's asking you to take a lot in."
"Well, no," Ballinger said, feeling something shift inside, a quickening in his blood. "It's - it's a little more than that, Melanie, isn't it? I mean it's not a weather report, for God's sake."
"I should've known," she said.
"Forgive me for it," he said, "but I have to ask you something."
"It's all right, Daddy," she said as though reciting it for him. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not really rushing into anything -"
He interrupted her. "Well, good God, somebody rushed into something, right?"
"Is that what you call him? No, I'm Daddy. You have to call him Granddaddy."
"That is not funny," she said.
"I wasn't being funny, Melanie. And anyway, that wasn't my question." He took a breath. "Please forgive this, but I have to know."
"There's nothing you really have to know, Daddy. I'm an adult. I'm telling you out of family courtesy."
"I understand that. Family courtesy exactly. Exactly, Melanie, that's a good phrase. Would you please tell me, out of family courtesy, if the baby is his."
"Yes." Her voice was small now, coming from a long way off.
"I'm sorry for the question, but I have to put all this together. I mean you're asking me to take in a whole lot here, you know?"
"I said I understood how you feel."
"I don't think so. I don't think you quite understand how I feel."
"All right," she said. "I don't understand how you feel. But I think I knew how you'd react."
For a few seconds, there was just the low, sea sound of long distance.
"Melanie, have you done any of the math on this?"
"I should've bet money," she said in the tone of a person who has been proven right about something.
"Well, but Jesus," Ballinger said. "I mean he's older than I am, kid. He's - he's a lot older than I am." The number of years seemed to dawn on him as he spoke; it filled him with a strange, heart-shaking heat. "Honey, nineteen years. When he was my age, I was only two years older than you are now."
"I don't see what that has to do with anything," she said.
"Melanie, I'll be forty-five all the way in December. I'm a young forty- four."
"I know when your birthday is, Dad."
"Well, good God, this guy's nineteen years older than your own father."
She said, "I've grasped the numbers. Maybe you should go ahead and put Mom on."
"Melanie, you couldn't pick somebody a little closer to my age? Some snot-nosed forty-year-old?"
"Stop it," she said. "Please, Daddy. I know what I'm doing."
"Do you know how old he's going to be when your baby is ten? Do you? Have you given that any thought at all?"
She was silent.
He said, "How many children are you hoping to have?"
"I'm not thinking about that. Any of that. This is now, and I don't care about anything else."
He sat down in his kitchen and tried to think of something else to say. Outside the window, his wife, with no notion of what she was about to be hit with, looked through the patterns of shade in the blinds and, seeing him, waved. It was friendly, and even so, all their difficulty was in it, too. Ballinger waved back. "Melanie," he said, "do you mind telling me just where you happened to meet William? I mean how do you meet a person forty-two years older than you are. What, was there a senior citizen student mixer at the college?"
"Stop it, Daddy."
"No, I really want to know. If I'd just picked this up and read it in the newspaper, I think I'd want to know. I'd probably call the newspaper and see what I could find out."
"Put Mom on," she said.
"Just tell me how you met. You can do that, can't you?"
"Jesus Christ," she said, then paused.
"He's a teacher, like you and Mom, only college. He was my literature teacher. He's a professor of literature. He knows everything that was ever written, and he's the most brilliant man I've ever known. You have no idea how fascinating it is to talk with him."
"Yes, and I guess you understand that over the years that's what you're going to be doing a lot of, with him, Melanie. A lot of talking."
"I am carrying the proof that disproves you," she said.
He couldn't resist saying, "Did he teach you to talk like that?"
"I'm gonna hang up."
"You promised you'd listen to something I had to tell you."
"OK," she said crisply. "I'm listening."
He could imagine her tapping the toe of one foot on the floor: the impatience of someone awaiting an explanation. He thought a moment. "He's a professor?"
"That's not what you wanted to tell me."
"But you said he's a professor."
"Yes, I said that."
"Don't be mad at me, Melanie. Give me a few minutes to get used to the idea. Jesus. Is he a professor emeritus?"
"If that means distinguished, yes. But I know what you're -"
"No, Melanie. It means retired. You went to college."
She said nothing.
"I'm sorry. But for God's sake, it's a legitimate question."
"It's a stupid, mean-spirited thing to ask." He could tell from her voice that she was fighting back tears.
"Is he there with you now?"
"Yes," she said, sniffling.
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"Daddy, why are you being this way?"
"Do you think maybe we could've had this talk alone? What's he, listening on the other line?"
"Well, thank God for that."
"Aren't you happy for me?
"I'm going to hang up now."
"No, please don't hang up. Please let's just be calm and talk about this. We have some things to talk about here."
She sniffled, blew her nose. Someone held the phone for her. There was a muffled something in the line, and then she was there again. "Go ahead," she said.
"Is he still in the room with you?"
"Yes." Her voice was defiant.
"Oh, for God's sake," she said.
"I'm sorry, I feel the need to know. Is he sitting down?"
"I want him here, Daddy. We both want to be here," she said.
"And he wants to marry you."
"Yes," she said impatiently.
"Do you think I could talk to him?"
She said something he couldn't hear, and then there were several seconds of some sort of discussion, in whispers. Finally she said, "Do you promise not to yell at him?"
"Melanie, he wants me to promise not to yell at him?"
"Will you promise?"
"Good God, who is this guy?"
"Promise," she said. "Or I'll hang up."
"All right. I promise. I promise not to yell at him."
There was another small scuffing sound, and a man's voice came through the line. "Hello, sir." It was, as far as Ballinger could tell, an ordinary voice, slightly lower than baritone. He thought of cigarettes. "I realize this is a difficult -"
"Do you smoke?" Ballinger interrupted him.
"OK. Go on."
"Well, I want you to know I understand how you feel."
"Melanie says she does, too," Ballinger said. "I mean I'm certain you both think you do."
"It was my idea that Melanie call you about this."
"Oh, really. That speaks well of you. You probably knew I'd find this a little difficult to absorb and that's why you waited until Melanie was pregnant, for Christ's sake."
The other man gave forth a small sigh of exasperation.
"So you're a literature professor."
"Oh, you needn't 'sir' me. After all, I mean I am the goddam kid here."
"There's no need for sarcasm, sir."
"Oh, I wasn't being sarcastic. That was a literal statement of this situation that obtains right here as we're speaking. And, really, Mr... It's Coombs, right?"
"Coombs, like the thing you comb your hair with."
The other man was quiet.
"Just how long do you think it'll take me to get used to this? You think you might get into your seventies before I get used to this? And how long do you think it'll take my wife who's twenty-one years younger than you are to get used to this?"
"You're too old for my wife, for Christ's sake."
"What's your first name again?"
The other man spoke through another sigh. "Perhaps we should just ring off."
"Ring off. Jesus. Ring off? Did you actually say 'Ring off'? What're you, a goddam Limey or something?"
"I am an American. I fought in Korea."
"Not World War Two?"
The other man did not answer.
"How many other marriages have you had?' Ballinger asked him.
"That's a valid question. I'm glad you -"
"Thank you for the scholarly observation, sir. But I'm not sitting in a class. How many did you say?"
"If you'd give me a chance, I'd tell you."
Ballinger said nothing.
"Two, sir. I've had two marriages."
"I have been widowed twice."
"And - oh, I get it. You're trying to make sure that that never happens to you again."
"This is not going well at all, and I'm afraid I - I -" The other man stammered, then stopped.
"How did you expect it to go?" Ballinger demanded.
"Cruelty is not what I'd expected. I'll tell you that."
"You thought I'd be glad my daughter is going to be getting social security before I do."
The other was silent.
"Do you have any other children?" Ballinger asked.
"Yes, I happen to have three." There was a stiffness, an over-weening tone, in the voice now.
"And how old are they, if I might ask."
"Yes, you may."
Ballinger waited. His wife walked in from outside, carrying some cuttings. She poured water in a glass vase and stood at the counter arranging the flowers, her back to him. The other man had stopped talking. "I'm sorry," Balinger said. "My wife just walked in here and I didn't catch what you said. Could you just tell me if any of them are anywhere near my daughter's age?"
"I told you, my youngest boy is thirty-eight."
"And you realize that if he wanted to marry my daughter I'd be upset, the age difference there being what it is." Ballinger's wife moved to his side, drying her hands on a paper towel, her face full of puzzlement and worry.
"I told you, Mr Ballinger, that I understood how you feel. The point is, we have a pregnant woman here and we both love her."
"No," Ballinger said. "That's not the point. The point is that you, sir, are not much more than a goddam statutory rapist. That's the point." His wife took his shoulder. He looked at her and shook his head.
"What?" she whispered. "Is Melanie all right?"
"Well, this isn't accomplishing anything," the voice on the other end of the line was saying.
"Just a minute," Ballinger said. "Let me ask you something else. Really now. What's the policy at that goddam university concerning teachers screwing their students?"
"Oh, my God," his wife said as the voice on the line huffed and seemed to gargle.
"I'm serious," Ballinger said.
"Melanie was not my student when we became involved."
"Is that what you call it? Involved?"
"Let me talk to Melanie," Ballinger's wife said.
"Listen," he told her. "Be quiet."
Melanie was back on the line. "Daddy? Daddy?"
"I'm here," Ballinger said, holding the phone from his wife's attempt to take it from him.
"Daddy, we're getting married and there's nothing you can do about it. Do you understand?"
"Melanie," he said, and it seemed that from somewhere far inside himself he heard that he had been shouting at her. "Jee-zus good Christ. Your fiance was almost my age now the day you were born. What the hell, kid. Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind?"
His wife was actually pushing against him to take the phone, and so he gave it to her. And stood there while she tried to talk.
"Melanie," she said. "Honey, listen -"
"Hang up," Ballinger said. "Christ. Hang it up."
"Please. Will you go in the other room and let me talk to her?"
"Tell her I've got friends. All these nice men in their forties. She can marry any one of my friends - they're babies. Forties - cradle fodder. Jesus, any one of them. Tell her."
"Jack, stop it." Then she put the phone against her chest. "Did you tell her anything about us?"
He paused. "That - no."
She turned from him. "Melanie, honey. What is this? Tell me, please."
He left her there, walked through the living room to the hall and back around to the kitchen. He was all nervous energy, crazy with it, pacing. Mary stood very still, listening, nodding slightly, holding the phone tight with both hands, her shoulders hunched as if she were out in cold weather.
"Mary," he said.
He went into their bedroom and closed the door. The light coming through the windows was soft gold, and the room was deepening with shadows. He moved to the bed and sat down, and in a moment he noticed that he had begun a low sort of murmuring. He took a breath and tried to be still. From the other room, his wife's voice came to him. "Yes, I quite agree with you. But I'm just unable to put this..."
The voice trailed off. He waited. A few minutes later, she came to the door and knocked on it lightly, then opened it and looked in.
"What," he said.
"They're serious." She stood there in the doorway.
"Come here," he said.
She stepped to his side and eased herself down, and he moved to accommodate her. He put his arm around her, and then, because it was awkward, clearly an embarrassment to her, took it away. Neither of them could speak for a time. Everything they had been through during the course of deciding about each other seemed concentrated now. Ballinger breathed his wife's presence, the odor of earth and flowers, the outdoors.
"God," she said. "I'm positively numb. I don't know what to think."
"Let's have another baby," he said suddenly. "Melanie's baby will need a younger aunt or uncle."
Mary sighed a little forlorn laugh, then was silent.
"Did you tell her about us?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I didn't get the chance. And I don't know that I could have."
"I don't suppose it's going to matter much to her."
"Oh, don't say that. You can't mean that."
The telephone on the bedstand rang, and startled them both. He reached for it, held the handset toward her.
"Hello," she said. Then: "Oh. Hi. Yes, well, here." She gave it back to him.
"Hello," he said.
Melanie's voice, tearful and angry: "You had something you said you had to tell me." She sobbed, then coughed. "Well?"
"It was nothing, honey. I don't even remember what it was."
"Well, I want you to know I would've been better than you were, Daddy, no matter how hard it was. I would've kept myself from reacting."
"Yes," he said. "I'm sure you would have."
"I'm going to hang up. And I guess I'll let you know later if we're coming at all. If it wasn't for Mom, we wouldn't be."
"We'll talk," he told her. "We'll work on it. Honey, you both have to give us a little time."
"There's nothing to work on as far as William and I are concerned."
"Of course there are things to work on. Every marriage-"
His voice had caught. He took a breath. "In every marriage there are things to work on."
"I know what I know," she said.
"Well," said Ballinger. "That's - that's as it should be at your age, darling."
"Goodbye," she said. "I can't say any more."
"I understand," Ballinger said. When the line clicked, he held the handset in his lap for a moment. Mary was sitting there at his side, perfectly still.
"Well," he said. "I couldn't tell her." He put the handset back in its cradle. "God. A sixty-three-year-old son-in-law."
"It's happened before." She put her hand on his shoulder, then took it away. "I'm so frightened for her. But she says it's what she wants."
"Hell, Mary. You know what this is. The son of a bitch was her goddam teacher."
"Listen to you - what are you saying about her? Listen to what you're saying about her. That's our daughter you're talking about. You might at least try to give her the credit of assuming that she's aware of what she's doing."
They said nothing for a few moments.
"Who knows," Ballinger's wife said. "Maybe they'll be happy for a time."
He'd heard the note of sorrow in her voice, and thought he knew what she was thinking; then he was certain that he knew. He sat there remembering, like Mary, their early happiness, that ease and simplicity, and briefly he was in another house, other rooms, and he saw the toddler that Melanie had been, trailing through slanting light in a brown hallway, draped in gowns she had fashioned from her mother's clothes. He did not know why that particular image should have come to him out of the flow of years, but for a fierce minute it was uncannily near him in the breathing silence; it went over him like a palpable something - on his skin, then was gone. The ache which remained stopped him for a moment.
He looked at his wife, but she had averted her eyes, her hands running absently over the faded denim cloth of her lap. Finally she stood. "Well," she sighed, going away. "Work to do."
"Mary?" he said, low; but she hadn't heard him. She was already out of the doorway and into the hall, moving toward the kitchen. He reached over and turned the lamp on by the bed, and then lay down. It was so quiet here. Dark was coming to the windows. On the wall there were pictures; shadows, shapes, silently clamoring for his gaze. He shut his eyes, listened to the small sounds she made in the kitchen, arranging her flowers, running the tap. Mary, he had said. But he could not imagine what he might have found to say if his voice had reached her.
'Aren't you happy for me? and Other Stories' is published by Macmillan on 23 June, at pounds 8.99