Our Infinite Sadness

Departure

Renée started in on Ben from the moment he snapped his seatbelt for the drive to the airport. She had tried to have a go at him when he had traipsed into the kitchen through the back door at nine-thirty in the morning, but he had begged her to hold the thought, since he hadn't yet started packing, and they needed to be at the terminal by noon for early check-in.

"You don't look like you got much sleep," she had called out, as he had trudged up the stairs. At least she hadn't asked him where he'd been all night, and that gave him hope that he might get through the next six hours without being forced to relive the worst night of his life.

They just barely got out the door in time. Ben had tried to pack light, but he still ended up with six large suitcases, stuffed into the SUV. He took the back seat. He had two jumbo suitcases for company. The remainder, four steamer trunks, were stacked behind him.

As Phil backed out of the driveway, Renée remarked, "Long night last night."

Ben grunted.

Phil cleared his throat noisily as he put the car into drive. Renée threw him an irritated look. He ducked his head, depressed the gas, and focused on the rules of the road in order to stay out of the mêlée that ensued.

"Honey, would you like to talk about it?"

Ben stared out of the window, at the sprawling city that he might never see again, and he saw nothing whatsoever. He felt Renée's eyes bearing down on him. She detested the silent treatment, and he knew he had at most five seconds before she would remind him of that fact. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Isn't there?"

Ben's eyes darted to his mother, and she was turned in her seat, looking straight at him with concern.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and returned to his window. "Fine," he hissed at the window. "Let's discuss. What topic did you have in mind?"

"That tone will fly with Charlie even less than it does with me, so get it all out while you can."

"Mom, I said I have nothing to say. So if you want to lead, you have the floor."

"Okay. I'll lead. You were out all night."

He glared at her and icily said, "Please, Mother. You had to know that might be a possibility. All four of you practically threw us together, her parents, too."'

"We sure did."

"So what's the problem?"

Phil groaned audibly, Ben's first warning that he was bagged, but he set his poker face as best he could and returned her stare.

"The problem, wise-guy, is that Kira called last night at eleven-ten."

"Jesus Christ." Kira. Zoey's mother.

"Zoey stormed into the house bawling her eyes out, slammed her bedroom door and cried all night."

"Shit!"

"Language!"

"Goddamn it, Renée, stay out of it!"

She wasn't done, not by a mile. "Kira called again this morning. I told her you hadn't come home. She knocked on Zoey's door and peeked in. Zoey was finally asleep, still wearing the dress from last night. Kira didn't want to wake her. She stuck a Post-It on Zoey's iPhone. Kira called again a half hour ago while you were packing. Zoey is still in bed, crying in her sleep. Ben. What happened?"

What happened was that Ben had sat on the curb in front of Zoey's house until at least midnight. The first floor lights were on for awhile, and there were heated voices in the vicinity of the kitchen, muffled, indecipherable. Not that Ben listened. He crouched on the curb with his head between his knees and forced himself to hear nothing but sobs from the darkened second floor. Ben soaked the knees of his linen trousers until eventually all the lights went out, but the sobs from upstairs persisted as he trudged away.