Fathermucker (27 page)

“No,” I tell him, trying my best to disguise my shock at such a stroke of good fortune, “please.”

“You're Josh, right?”

“Yeah. And this is Maude.”

“Maude. I like that.”

The dude can fill a room, and not just because of his size. Charisma fairly radiates off him. Maybe one day he'll run for office. It's not unprecedented; John Hall, former leader of the band Orleans, is now a congressman a few districts downriver.

“And you already know Roland.”

“That we do. I'm Daryl, by the way.” He extends his hand, which is almost twice the size of mine—and that's not including the brass-knuckle-sized ring on his middle finger—and gives me a surprisingly gentle shake.

“I know. Although I wasn't sure if you preferred Daryl or Duke.”

“Duke's just a stage name,” he says, as if embarrassed. I didn't know such a big, self-assured guy was capable of bashfulness. “The idea was that it would make me more mysterious. It worked, I guess. But now I'm stuck with it. The days of Duke are kind of behind me, you know? These days, I'm pretty much a stay-at-home dad. Not much punk rock about that.”

“Oh, I don't know. There are certainly days when I have the urge to smash things.”

“There are days,” he says, “when I do,” and we both sort of chuckle politely, although neither of our jokes is all that funny.

“Anyway, I'm glad we bumped into you,” Reid says. “I've been meaning to call you.”
He's
been meaning to call
me
? “Zara's been talking about Roland nonstop, and I promised her I'd arrange a playdate.”

Idiot that I am, it did not occur to me that Roland's affection for Zara might work both ways. The boy
is
adorable. He's got that going for him. And that's an objective observation, not just the opinion of an admittedly biased father.

“That'd be great. Let me tell you, Roland
loves
Zara. We'd love to. Unless you're having second thoughts after today's little incident at the farm.”

“What incident?”

“You didn't notice the nuclear meltdown?”

“Oh,
that
.” Reid swats that notion away with a wave of his giant paw. “That was nothing, believe me. It always feels terrible when it's your kid, like you're the worst parent alive, but, I mean, they're four. Shit happens.”

All three of the kids erupt into paroxysms of laughter.

“Papa,” Zara says, once the laughing fit has worn down, “you said
shit
.”

“Yes, I did. Papa said a bad word. Don't you go talking like that, okay, pumpkin?”

“Okay, Papa.”

“Yeah, my son—he's in the second grade now, but he did his time at Thornwood—he was really a handful. He'd have a meltdown like that at least once a day, usually more, and always at the worst possible moments. A tantrum at the class field trip you can deal with; at the departure gate at JFK, dude, that's another story.”

“Oh,
man
.”

“Everybody looks at you, because you can't control your kid, and you're totally mortified, and it's really hard to keep your composure. You just want to scream. My wife, she took it all really hard. It was hard for her to leave the house with him. Because, I mean, in our society, if a kid misbehaves, it's always the mother's fault, right? We love to tee off on the mother. She's either withholding her love, or else she coddles him. Either way, it's all on her. The mother always takes the blame. And it wasn't Céline's fault; it wasn't my fault; it was no one's
fault
. It's just how Wade is, how he's wired. The things that sometimes make him difficult are the same things that make him special, that make him
him
.” He leans back, gives his knuckles a loud crack, and laughs. “I'm sorry, man. I do this. I just start talking. My wife hates it.”

“No, no, it's cool. It's good to talk. Do you guys just want to stay and eat with us?”

“You don't mind?”

“I mean, I may have to beat a hasty retreat if they get jumpy, but until then . . . ”

I flag down the green-eyeshadowed waitress, who runs back to the kitchen to fetch sodas and slices of pizza.

“So how is Wade doing in school?”

“Really well. He's doing really well. He loves his school, loves his teacher. But, I mean, we have him at the Annex. They know how to handle him there.”

“The Annex . . . ”

Before I can formulate my question, Reid answers. He's seen this movie before. “It's a school for children with, you know, autistic spectrum disorders. Wade's what they call PDD-NOS. Pervasive Development Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. That's what they call it when you have
some
autistic symptoms but not, you know, autism as such.”

“Papa,” Zara says. “I'm hungry.”

“I know,” he tells her. “That's why we're here.”

“You want some bread?” I offer.

She takes a garlic knot out of the basket, gnaws on it.

“Thanks,” Reid says. “Yeah, PDD-NOS. It's a stupid name. I really wish they'd come up with something better.”

“At least it doesn't sound like
assburger
.”

When he doesn't so much as smile at my joke, it dawns on me that Daryl Reid may not realize that Roland is on the spectrum. I glance at my son, but he's too busy making eyes at Zara to eavesdrop. There will be a day when Roland realizes that he has Asperger's, but he doesn't know yet, and I see no reason to hurry that epiphany along. “You know that Roland is, uh, A-S-P-I-E.”

Reid's eyebrows shoot up. “No, I didn't,” he says. “I had no idea.”

“He can be very unpredictable. Although right now, he's on his best behavior. The services, they help. And he seems to behave better when Zara's around.” This makes sense, I see now; if her older brother is at the Annex, Zara is used to handling volatile boys. “That's what Mrs. Drinkwater said.”

“Mrs. Drinkwater.” Reid shakes his head, and his Sid Vicious scowl looks like one of the faces he makes in the “My Heart Is Hydroplaning” video. “Wade had Mrs. Burns. She's the best. We
love
her. We got really lucky with that. Mrs. Drinkwater, she's . . . ”

“Overmatched.”

“Exactly. She's nice and all, and she cares, but . . . ”

The green-eyeshadowed waitress returns with their pizza.

Reid pats the excess oil off both slices, gives Zara hers, and takes a giant bite from the crust of his own. He looks at Roland, shakes his head in wonder. “Really. I never would have known.”

That he didn't know is, in a way, good; it means Roland can pass as “typical,” which is ultimately what you want as a parent: your kid to function in society, to not stand out all the time. On the other hand, his condition is very real, and if people don't know about it, his brusque manner can be confused with rudeness. It's a double-edged sword, the spectrum. To reveal or not to reveal.

“So what do you guys do?” Reid asks. “I know that's a lame question, but I'm curious.”

“No, it's cool,” I assure him. “My wife—her name is Stacy—she's an actress, and she works in marketing at IBM. I'm a . . . screenwriter.” I swallow the word, as I always do. It's a ridiculous thing to say with a straight face, like telling people that you're an astronaut.

“That's a tough racket,” he says. “Almost as bad as the music industry.”

“Tell me about it. But, you know, at least I don't have to lug around heavy equipment. Or leave the house.”

“Have you had any luck?”

“I sold a script once. And for about a day or two, it looked like it might even get made. George Clooney was interested, or so I was told. But that was five years ago—right before we moved here, when Roland was a baby—and it doesn't look like anything will ever become of it. I'm sure George has moved on.”

I decide not to mention the crippling writer's block.

“Still,” he says. “Pretty impressive.”

“I guess.” If I'm ever going to bring up the proposed interview, now is the time. The iron is hot.
But tread carefully, Josh; be subtle.
“I also do some freelance writing. For
Rents
magazine. Do you know it?”

“Sure. Céline has a subscription, so I wind up reading it in the can. What stuff do you write for them?”

“Whatever they tell me to.” Not strictly a lie. “Little wrap-ups, mostly. And the occasional celebrity interview.”

“Did you write that profile of Amanda Peet?”

“I wish.”

“Yeah. That was pretty good.”

Now or never, Josh. Shit or get off the pot.

“I don't suppose
you'd
like to be interviewed? You know, about fatherhood and stuff?”

The bashful look returns. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was blushing. “Oh, I doubt they'd want to talk to me. No one cares about Circle of Fists anymore. There's some heavy hitters in that magazine. I can't compete with Nicole Richie and Ashlee Simpson-Wentz.”

Before I can bust his chops for knowing who Nicole Richie and Ashlee Simpson-Wentz are—and for using the latter's married name!—the three girls at the opposite table, the not-that-cute Goth chicks ignorant of the Culture Club experience, approach us, all giggly. “Excuse me,” says the nose-ringed leader, the one who insisted that she'd never heard “Karma Chameleon,” that her friends were total dorks, “but are you Daryl ‘Duke' Reid?”

Reid says that he is, and that he's flattered that they recognized him, and they tell him they think “My Heart Is Hydroplaning” is like the best song of all time ever, and he thanks them, and they ask about his new album, and he says it won't be out till next year, and they ask for his autograph, which he provides in crayon on the back of one of the
BEAUTIFUL ITALY
placemats. Then they thank him profusely and quit the restaurant, giggling all the way to the parking lot. Not once during the entire exchange do they so much as glance in my direction. Not even a rock star's reflected glow can get three homely college chicks to notice me. Super Stop & Shop, meet the Invisible Dad.

“You were saying?”

“Disaffected Goth teenagers don't read
Rents
magazine,” he says. “Totally different demographic. I highly doubt your editor has ever heard of me.”

“Alright, I'll come clean,” I tell him. “I already asked. Just on the off chance I wound up talking to you. And they definitely want you.”

“Papa,” says Zara, sliding into his lap.

“Really?” Reid seems genuinely delighted—not at all the reaction I was expecting. “To do a parenting interview?”

“That's what they told me. You game?”

“I'd love to. Really. Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Papa,” Zara says again.

“What is it, pumpkin?”

“Can Roland come to our house for a playdate?”

On the magic word
playdate
, Roland comes up for air, reentering the general conversation. “Daddy,” he says. “I want to go to Zara's house. And I want Zara to come to our house.”

“Oh, we'll make that happen,” Reid assures him. “We'd love to have you over, Roland.”

“Do you have a ranch?”

“A ranch?”

“We have a Cape Cod home, but I like ranch homes better because ranch homes don't have stairs.”

“Oh, a
ranch
. No, our house is what's called a Queen Anne.”

“A Queen Anne!” Finding this amusing, Roland guffaws. “Zara's house is a Queen
Anne
home! There are a number of Queen
Anne
homes in Buffalo, New York. Also in Louisville, Kentucky; Rolla, Missouri; Cleveland, Ohio . . . ”

“Daddy,” Maude breaks in, as Maude will. “Can we have
hice
cream?”

“ . . . New Albany, Indiana; Richmond, Virginia . . . ”

“When we get home,” I tell her. “If you're good.”

“But what's for me?” Roland says, suddenly irritated. “Maude gets hice cream and I get
nothing
!” And he throws back his head and brays like an injured animal.

This makes Reid laugh.

“I better go,” I tell him.

“Yeah, me too. Have to fetch Wade. He's at a chess lesson, of all things.”

We get the check—Reid insists on paying, and I acquiesce only when he agrees to let me leave the tip—and we exchange numbers and e-mail addresses, and we all head to the parking lot together.

Two days from its apogee, the moon, a plump yellow crescent, hangs above us like a pendant lamp from one of Roland's lighting catalogs. Nature's nightlight. You feel like you could reach up and shut it off. The sun, ready to punch out and quit his eleven-hour workday, has already vanished over the Ridge. There have been UFO sightings over those naked rocks—we're not far from Pine Bush, where Whitley Strieber was whisked heavenward in alien communion—and the orange glow of sunset
the dying ember of another day
gives the range a decidedly otherworldly quality. If not for the trees and the tower, the Gunks, bathed in the twilight's last gleaming, could grace the surface of some lesser Uranian moon.

We say our goodbyes. Zara climbs into the burnt-orange Murano, and Roland and Maude hop into the Odyssey, and with a tentative-if-vague plan to get together early next week, the rock star and I part company.

Bagging the interview is great and all; but I really like the guy, and it looks like we might become
friends
. I'm so psyched about the prospect—I'm desperately in need of cool dad friends, and Daryl “Duke” Reid is, without a doubt, a cool dad; more than a cool dad, a paradigm for how I want to live—that I momentarily forget about the day's many troubles, about Stacy's alleged infidelity, about Roland's breakdown, about the altercation with Officer Stalin, about the Headless Whoresman. Instead my mind concentrates on the immediate future—the kids going to sleep in another two hours, the return of my wife tomorrow afternoon, the playdate with Daryl and Zara Reid next week—and it's not a stretch to say that, at this precise moment, my heart is hydroplaning.