- Instead, I put on my good black pants. A clean white button-down shirt. The one I’d worn to Bryce’s graduation. I put on a little lipstick, which I almost never wear. I did my hair. Roxy came over at noon and helped me with the back.
- Then I went to the hall closet and took out my work boots.
- My Red Wings. Steel toe. Resoled twice. I’d cleaned them the night before at the kitchen table with saddle soap and an old toothbrush, the way my father taught me. They didn’t shine. Work boots don’t shine. But they were clean.
- I put them on. I laced them up.
- Roxy watched me from the doorway.
- “You sure?” she said.
- “I’m sure.”
- She looked at me for a long moment. Then she smiled.
- “Dad would be so proud of you,” she said.
- “Dad would have said I should’ve polished them better.”
- Roxy laughed. “That too.”
- It’s about an hour and forty-five minutes from Rockford to Madison. Up I-39, then I-90 past Janesville. Roxy drove her Honda. I sat in the passenger seat with the invitation in my lap and didn’t say much.
- Maple Bluff is a little village on the northeast side of Madison, on the shore of Lake Mendota. Big old houses on big lawns. Old trees. Gas lamps on the streets. The Hartleys’ house was at the end of a long driveway. Brick, two stories, with white trim and a slate roof. Every window was lit. There were cars parked all the way down the driveway and along the street. Valets in black jackets.
- Roxy pulled up to the front. A young man in a black jacket opened my door.
- “Welcome, ma’am.”
- I got out. My boots crunched on the salted driveway.
- I stood there for a moment, looking at the house. At the lights in every window. At the shapes of people moving inside. I could hear music. A jazz trio. Laughter. Glasses clinking.
- I almost got back in the car.
- Then the front door opened.
- A woman came out onto the porch. About sixty. Small. Silver hair cut short. A dark green dress and a pearl necklace. She stood at the top of the steps and looked at me.
- “Jo?” she said.
- “Judith?”
- She came down the steps. Quickly. In heels, on the salted brick. She didn’t stop when she got to me. She just put her arms around me and hugged me. Right there in the driveway. In front of the valet.
- “You came,” she said into my shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you for coming.”
- “Thank you for asking.”
- She pulled back. She looked at me. At my white shirt. My good black pants.
- At my boots.
- She smiled.
- “Gordon’s going to love you,” she said.
- The house was full of people. Warm and bright and loud. A big front hall with a curving staircase and a Christmas tree twelve feet tall, covered in white lights. The jazz trio was playing in the living room. Waiters in black vests were carrying around silver trays of little crab cakes and champagne.
- Everybody was very well dressed. Suits. Cocktail dresses. Pearls. Diamonds.
- Some of them looked at my boots. I saw them look. I didn’t care.
- Judith took my arm and walked me through the crowd. She introduced me to everybody.
- “This is Jo Hollis,” she said, every time. “Bryce’s mother.”
- Every time she said it, she said it a little louder.
- I didn’t see Bryce at first. Or Victor, or Whitney. The house was too crowded.
- Then a big man came through the crowd toward us.
- He was about sixty-four. Tall and barrel-chested, with a thick gray mustache and a red face and enormous hands. He was wearing a navy suit that looked uncomfortable on him, like he’d been stuffed into it by somebody else. His tie was loose.
- And he was wearing work boots.
- Brown leather Red Wings, old and scuffed, with steel toes.
- He stopped in front of me. He looked down at my boots. Then at his own.
- Then he looked at me and grinned.
- “Jo Hollis,” he said. “Local 364.”
- “Gordon Hartley,” I said. “Local 159.”
- He held out his hand. I shook it. He had a grip like a vise. Calluses on his palm. A white scar across his knuckles.
- “Box cutter,” he said, seeing me look at the scar. “1981. Wiring a gas station in Sun Prairie. Twenty-two stitches. Kept working.”
- I held up my left thumb. The cut from the junction box on East State Street, healed now but still pink.
- “Junction box,” I said. “Three weeks ago. Storefront rewire. Knob and tube.”
- Gordon whistled. “Knob and tube. God bless. Nobody wants to touch that anymore.”
- “Somebody has to.”
- He laughed. A big booming laugh that made half the room turn and look.
- “I’ve got your article on my desk,” he said. “The flood. The nursing home. Thirty-one hours.” He shook his head. “You know how many of my foremen I’d trust to do that? Maybe two.” He looked at me. “If you ever want to leave Rockford, there’s a job at Hartley Electric with your name on it. I mean it. Any day.”
- “Thank you,” I said. “But Rockford’s home.”
- “I figured,” he said. “Good electricians usually stay where they started.” He paused. “So did my father.”
- Then his face changed. Got serious. He looked over my shoulder, across the room.
- “He’s here,” Gordon said quietly. “Your boy. By the fireplace. With his father.”
- I turned around.
- Across the crowded living room, by a big stone fireplace with a fire roaring in it, I saw my son.
- Bryce. In a dark gray suit. A white shirt. A blue tie. His hair neatly cut. Standing with a glass of champagne in his hand. Talking to a group of people I didn’t know. Smiling. Laughing.
- Caroline was beside him. Pretty and dark-haired in a red dress. She wasn’t laughing.
- Victor was on his other side. In the navy wool overcoat, still. He hadn’t taken it off. Whitney was next to Victor. In a pale pink dress. Her blond hair perfect.
- Bryce hadn’t seen me yet.
- Then Caroline turned her head. She saw me across the room.
- Her face changed. She put her hand on Bryce’s arm. She said something to him.
- He turned around.
- He saw me.
- I watched his face go through about five things in about two seconds. Confusion. Recognition. Shock. Embarrassment. And then, finally, something I couldn’t name. Something closer to fear.
- He looked at my boots.
- Then he looked at Gordon Hartley, standing right next to me. Gordon, with his arm around my shoulders. Gordon, in his scuffed brown Red Wings.
- Bryce’s face went completely white.
- Victor saw me then too. His face went red. He leaned over and said something sharp to Whitney.
- Whitney didn’t answer him. She was looking at me. Not with anger. With something else. Something I’d never seen on her face before.
- Shame.
- Bryce put down his champagne glass on the mantel. He walked across the room toward me. Fast. Weaving through the crowd. Caroline followed him.
- He stopped in front of me.
- “Mom,” he said. His voice was low and tight. “What are you doing here?”
- “I was invited,” I said.
- “By who?”
- “By me,” said Judith. She stepped up beside me. “And by Gordon. And by Caroline.” She looked at Bryce. “It’s my house, Bryce. My party. I can invite whoever I want.”
- Bryce stared at her.
- “I thought we talked about this,” he said. “I thought. I told you. It’s complicated. With my mom.”
- “You told us a lot of things, Bryce,” Judith said quietly. “At L’Etoile. Your father told us even more.”
- Bryce’s face went from white to gray.
- “Excuse me,” said Gordon, very politely, to the people around us, who had all stopped talking and were watching. “Would you all mind giving us a minute?”
- The crowd around us melted away. People drifted toward the dining room. Toward the bar. Toward the jazz trio. Pretending they weren’t listening.
- It was just us now. Me, Roxy, Judith, Gordon. Bryce and Caroline. And, a few seconds later, Victor and Whitney, who had come over from the fireplace.
- Victor’s face was red. He was furious. He didn’t look at me. He looked at Judith.
- “Judith,” he said. “I don’t know what she’s told you. But you shouldn’t believe…”
- “She hasn’t told me anything, Victor,” Judith said. “I called her. Two weeks ago. I asked her a question. And before I did, I called your brother.”
- Victor stopped.
- “Paul,” he said.
- “Paul,” said Judith. “He told me everything. The affair. The divorce. Who left who. The Wednesday dinners.” She looked at Victor. “And Northwestern.”
- Victor’s face went from red to white.
- Bryce turned and looked at his father.
- “What about Northwestern?” he said slowly.
- Nobody said anything.
- “Dad,” Bryce said. “What about Northwestern?”
- Victor opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
- So Judith said it. Gently. Clearly. The way I imagine she said things for twenty-six years in a Dane County courthouse, to families who didn’t want to hear them.
- “Your mother paid for it, Bryce,” she said. “All of it. A hundred and sixty thousand dollars. She took out a loan against her house. She cashed out part of her pension. She worked every overtime shift her union would give her for four years. She worked Christmas Day. Twice.” Judith paused. “Your father put in a swimming pool.”
- Bryce stared at her.
- Then he turned and looked at me.
- “Mom,” he said. His voice cracked. “Is that true?”
- I looked at my son.
- For twelve years, I’d stayed quiet. I’d let Victor tell his story. I’d let Whitney be the pretty one. I’d paid and worked and shown up and never once said, That was me. I did that.
- I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want him to feel guilty. I didn’t want him to owe me anything.
- But standing there in Judith Hartley’s living room in my work boots, I realized something.
- Staying quiet hadn’t protected him.
- It had taught him that I didn’t matter.
- “Yes, Bryce,” I said quietly. “It’s true.”
- He stared at me.
- “You said you saved up,” he said. “When I got in. You said you’d been saving. You said not to worry about it.”
- “I said that because I didn’t want you to worry,” I said. “I didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything. I wanted you to just go and be happy.”
- “Christmas,” he said slowly. “Freshman year. And sophomore year. You said you had to work. You said they were short-handed at the water plant.”
- “I volunteered,” I said. “Double time. Holiday pay. Two Christmases was almost a semester.”
- Bryce put his hand over his mouth.
- He turned to his father.
- “Dad,” he said. “You told me you paid for school. You told me it was a sacrifice. You told me that at my graduation. You said, ‘Son, I hope you know what your mother and I gave up for this.’” He stopped. “You meant Whitney. When you said your mother. You meant Whitney.”
- Victor didn’t say anything.
- “You told Gordon and Judith that Mom walked out on us,” Bryce said. “You told them she drinks.”
- “Bryce, I didn’t say exactly…”
- “I was there, Dad,” Bryce said. “I was sitting right next to you.”
- “And you agreed with him,” said Caroline quietly.
- Everybody turned and looked at her.
- She was standing beside Bryce in her red dress with her arms folded. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying. Maybe for days.
- “You agreed with him, Bryce,” she said. “At dinner. My dad asked you directly. And you said Whitney was more of a mom to you than your real mom ever was. And you said your mom wasn’t someone you’d want at a wedding. And you laughed.” Her voice shook. “And in the car, I asked you if it was true. If she really left. If she really drinks. And you said, ‘Pretty much.’”
- Bryce’s face crumpled.
- “Caroline,” he said. “I…”
- “You let me believe your mother was a drunk who abandoned you,” Caroline said. “I’ve been engaged to you for three months. I’ve been planning our wedding. And I didn’t even know your mother’s name until my mom told me.” She wiped her eyes. “You told me you were embarrassed of your mom because she’s ‘blue collar.’ My grandfather was blue collar. My dad was an apprentice at sixteen. My whole family is electricians, Bryce. Did you think we’d be embarrassed by her?”
- Bryce looked at Gordon. At Gordon’s scuffed brown Red Wings.
- “I didn’t know,” he said weakly. “I didn’t think about it. I thought you were. I thought you’d be like. Like Dad’s friends. Like the people at the club.”
- “You never asked,” said Gordon quietly. “Three months, son. You’ve eaten dinner at my table eleven times. You never once asked me how I started. You never asked about my boots.” He pointed at the shelf above the fireplace. I hadn’t noticed it before. Sitting on the mantel, between two silver candlesticks, was a pair of ancient work boots. Cracked brown leather. Steel toes worn through. “Those were my first pair. 1978. I bronzed them. My wife wanted to throw them out. I told her she’d have to throw me out first.”
- Bryce looked at the boots on the mantel.
- Then he looked down at mine.
- Victor finally found his voice.
- “This is ridiculous,” he said. “This is a private family matter. Judith, you had no right to bring her here and humiliate us in front of…”
- “Victor,” said Whitney.
- Everybody turned and looked at her.
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