How to Talk to a Widower (23 page)

         

Angie and Claire handle the cops. Their combined beauty is blinding and the young crew-cut cops don't know who to impress first. Apologies and explanations are made, flirtatious giggles are issued, smiles and nods are exchanged, breasts are stared at. The complex relationships that comprise our unblended family are laid out for the confused officers like blueprints. The father, the stepmother, the stepfather, the visiting sister, it takes a few go-rounds before it all makes sense. But ultimately, no charges will be pressed, no reports made. Hands touch shoulders, eyes are batted, wrists squeezed in gratitude. A family scuffle that got out of hand but now is most assuredly back in hand. The cops look over at Jim, Russ, and me, still sitting in the spots we landed in at the end of the melee, and we all nod, doing our best to look docile and penitent, but we are not beautiful so the cops don't talk to us. There was talk of an ambulance when I passed out, but I came to almost immediately, and Claire insisted there was no need. And then, casting last, longing glances at the united front of Claire and Angie, the cops reluctantly climb back into their patrol car and drive off. Then Angie packs Jim into the passenger seat of his BMW, and as soon as the door closes, he covers his face and starts to sob violently. Russ and I look away, the way men do instinctively when other men cry.

Then it's just the three of us, sitting on the porch, buzzed on the surplus endorphins and adrenaline still coursing through our veins, talking the way people do in the aftermath of a dramatic occurrence, weaving our three separate vantage points into a single, cohesive narrative that will become the official version, the source material for all future discussions of the event.

Claire goes inside and brings out ice in two ziplocked plastic bags for my face and Russ's fist.

“That's some shiner you've got there,” Russ says to me.

“Try not to sound so proud of yourself.”

“It was an accident. You walked into my swing.”

“You were supposed to stay inside.”

“I couldn't leave you out there to get your ass kicked. That's not how I roll, man.”

“I was handling it.”

“You're welcome. Jesus!”

“Okay. Thank you for pissing off Jim and then bringing your mess to my doorstep. And thank you for punching me in the face, and for giving me a shiner two days before my sister's wedding.”

“And for saving your ass. We'd still be picking your teeth out of the grass.”

I sigh through my bag of ice. “And for saving my ass.”

“You're welcome.”

And all around us, the quotidian sound track of suburban morning as the neighborhood comes to life, the rhythmic whisper of sprinklers, the whine of leaf blowers and mowers, the buzz of garage doors, the hydraulic hiss of braking school buses. And the people, these freshly shaved and shampooed people leaving their houses to start their days, these people who are moderately successful, who are upwardly mobile, who have things to do, places to go, and people to see. We watch these people going about the business of being alive like a choreographed dance number from our orchestra seats, we three entrenched on our asses, wondering where the hell they get the energy.

34

RUSS AND I SHOP FOR GROCERIES AT THE SUPER STOP
and Shop. We buy bottles of soda, bags of chips, boxes of pasta, jars of tomato sauce, large quantities of white bread, sandwich spreads, and frozen food. Everything we buy has the maximum amount of chemicals and requires the minimum amount of preparation to eat. We do not compare brands, do not look for circulars and coupons, because we are slated to be millionaires and price is no object. We do not consider nutritional factors, because we are young and slim and sad and beautiful, we shine in our grief, and we will eat what we want, when we want, with utter impunity. We tear through the market like young royalty, like elite fighter pilots, grabbing anything that catches our fancy, intoxicated by the infinite possibilities of this new, alternative family we've become. We have been hammered by bad fortune, cut off at the knees, and yet, here we are, rising above it all, floating brilliantly among these suburban housewives who can't help but flash us admiring glances as they fill their carts with fresh vegetables and raw chickens. We are a sitcom family, a Disney movie, a bold new social experiment. We buy sack-loads of frozen chicken nuggets and french fries. We will need a second freezer.

The left side of my face has a wine-colored, kidney-shaped welt that throbs continuously, and I feel compelled to trace this new topography in my flesh every few minutes, like a tongue worrying a loose tooth. There's something undeniably satisfying about being marked by violence, some manly validation, even if it was an errant blow from the very boy I was supposedly defending. I've been blooded in a violent rite of passage and have earned a new standing in the tribe. It's been one day since our epic battle with Jim, and all parties, speaking through me, have agreed that it would be best if Russ moved in with me, effective immediately. I am now in charge of this sad, confused, angry boy, this long-haired, tattooed bundle of rage and grief. Me, a stepfather. It's a sick joke, an abomination, an accident waiting to happen. It's perfect. As we shop, we banter, a particular brand of softly ironic wit laced with affection that is entirely our own. We will perfect this repartee over time, until it becomes our trademark, like Hepburn and Tracy, and even though I've never actually seen Hepburn and Tracy, I'm sure we're infinitely funnier. I pull food items off the shelves and toss them like footballs to Russ, and our record is perfect until he misses the cellophane-wrapped watermelon half, which hits the floor with a juicy thud and the corner crumples.

“Fuck,” Russ says.

“I can't believe you missed that.”

“Dude. That was nowhere near me.”

“I thought you were cutting left.”

“I was faking left.”

“Good job.”

“Let's just take a different one.”

“We can't put this back. Didn't you ever hear the expression, you break it you bought it?”

“Didn't you know that the customer is always right?”

“What would Jesus do?”

“Jesus wouldn't have thrown it like a little girl.”

“Just put it in the cart.”

And therein lies the tricky part. We can talk like buddies and live like roommates, be the brothers we never had, but at some point, my role as guardian has to kick in. If ever there was a kid in need of a decent male role model, it's Russ, and, qualified or not, I've landed the job. Granted, it was a battlefield promotion, but my shabby credentials notwithstanding, I'm hoping I'll surprise myself by divining a heretofore untapped well of maturity that's been accumulating somewhere inside of me like unspent interest, that will enable me to dispense a variety of wisdom and discipline that will in no way impede my overall coolness. And while I haven't yet figured out exactly how I'll navigate the more challenging terrain of issues like sex or drugs or truancy or internet porn, by God, I can do the right thing by this dented watermelon, and I allow myself a few seconds of warm and fuzzy for starting things off on the right foot, for passing our first ethical challenge with flying colors.

As Russ drives us home, we have our first official stepfather-stepson talk.

“Can I get a car?” he says.

“You don't have a license.”

“I will soon.”

“Let's deal with it then.”

“It's not like money's going to be an issue,” he says, looking away uncomfortably.

“Actually, I suspect money is going to be a huge issue.”

We have never discussed the airline settlement, the unfathomable amount of money headed our way.

“Why's that?”

“Because you're a sad, angry kid who lost his mother and hates his father, and now you're going to be rich, and if there was ever a recipe for screwing up a kid, this is it. And it's my job to make sure you don't become one of those assholes who jet-set around with other rich assholes, dating skanky celebrities, investing in nightclubs, doing your first stint in rehab before you're twenty-five.”

“It's heartwarming how much faith you have in me.”

“You're a kid, Russ. It's a lot to deal with. You know, it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to start seeing a therapist. There are probably some who specialize in exactly this sort of thing.”

“It's just a car, Doug. Jesus.”

“Watch the road.”

“I am.”

We ride in silence for a few minutes, and gradually the panicked feeling in me starts to fade. “Then again,” I say, “it's entirely possible that I'm overreacting. Let me think about it a little, okay?”

“Cool.”

You swear you'll never become your parents. You listen to edgy music, you dress young and hip, you have sex standing up and on kitchen tables, you say “fuck” and “shit” a lot, and then one day, without warning, their words emerge from your mouth like long-dormant sleeper agents suddenly activated. You're still young enough to hear these words through the ears of the teenager sitting beside you, and you realize how pitiful and ultimately futile your efforts will be, a few measly sandbags against the tidal wave of genetic destiny.

Back at the house, Claire supervises the unloading of packages, the reorganization of fridge and pantry. Then Russ heads upstairs to finish moving back into his old room. Angie called this morning when the coast was clear, and Russ and I moved his stuff out while Jim was at work. My cell phone flashes with multiple messages from Brooke, from Laney, and from the irrepressible Kyle Evans, but I return no calls. I am becoming a stepfather now, and it requires all of my concentration.

“Let him get the car,” Claire says. “You can't get laid in high school without a car.”

“Do I want him to get laid?”

She points a rebuking finger at my chest. “Cock blocker.”

“I'm trying to be responsible.”

“You're still cock-blocking. Honestly, just because you didn't have any sex in high school … ”

“I had sex in high school.”

“My point exactly,” Claire says. “Let him have a car, end of story. You can load the glove compartment with condoms and drunk-driving pamphlets if it will make you feel any better.”

“Thanks. You've been a big help.”

“It's what I do.”

Russ, Claire, and I eat dinner together at the dining room table. It's the first time I've eaten there since Hailey died, the first time I've used place mats and real dishes, the first time I didn't just take something out of tinfoil, nuke it, and eat it on the couch in front of the television, washing it down with too much wine or bourbon. We talk between chews, teasing each other and cracking wise, acutely aware that this is more than just a meal, that it's an inauguration of sorts, the start of something new, and while not that much has changed, there is the unspoken sense that where there was once something and then nothing, there is now something again, something smaller and sadder than before, but warm and real and brimming with potential. If we don't fuck it up.

Please don't let us fuck it up.

35

IN THE SMALL WAITING AREA OUTSIDE BROOKE'S
office at the high school, there is a girl sitting across from me, beautiful despite her painstaking efforts to not be. She wears black lipstick and dark, angry eyeliner, there is a metal hoop through her nostril and a ball stud nestled like a pearl in a shell in the cleavage of her plump bottom lip. But her eyes are wide and green, her cheekbones high, her complexion flawless. She is fooling no one, her beauty shines through like a fog light, and I wonder what compels her to try so hard. Two seats over is a boy with long, messy hair, a weak goatee, tattered jeans, and glazed stoner eyes. He slouches back in the chair, hands crossed across his chest, staring into the fluorescent lights, carefully, ostentatiously laid-back, cosmically unfazed. They take great pains not to acknowledge each other, these two kids, even though they are both troubled, both freaks, both resolutely hugging the outer walls of this hallway society. Their different slots on the food chain leave them no common ground in which to meet. And that's the genius of the system, really, pigeonholing the kids on the margins so that they can't even connect with each other, which would grow their numbers and threaten the ruling class.

We sit there, these two angry kids and me, three freaks, and it's amazing how powerful their silence is, how easily I am sucked into their rules. Every so often, their nervously roaming eyes cross paths with my own, quickly darting away before any intelligence can be exchanged, and I think it's a wonder anyone ever speaks to anyone else in high school.

“Doug,” Brooke says from her office doorway. “What are you doing here?”

She has on gray slacks and a black silk blouse and she looks crisp and professional and not as thrilled to see me as I'd hoped. “I just needed to see you for a moment.”

“Oh my God, what happened to your face?”

I rub my raised shiner possessively. “That's part of it.”

“I'll be with you guys in a minute,” she says to the two waiting kids, who are too busy trying not to exist to care very much one way or another.

“I'm sorry about the other night,” I say, once we're seated in her office.

“There's no need to apologize for that,” Brooke says.

“I feel bad.”

“What you should feel bad about is not calling me these last few days.”

“I do.”

“And not returning my calls.”

“I'm sorry about that too.”

“And making me feel like an idiot.”

“I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.”

“What happened to your face?”

“I got into a fight with Jim.”

“And he hit you?”

“Actually, Russ hit me.”

“Russ hit you.”

“But he meant to hit Jim.”

“Are you speaking allegorically?”

“I stepped in the way of his punch.”

“Ah.”

“Long story short, Russ is now living with me.”

Brooke smiles. “Well, that's good news at least. How do you feel about it?”

“Strangely okay,” I say. “A little scared. Terrified, actually. But in a good way.”

“You'll be fine.”

“Thanks.”

We look at each other for a moment. “So, is that what you came to tell me?”

“No. I came to see how you feel about weddings.”

“You're a nice guy, Doug, but I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment.”

“My sister's getting married this weekend.”

“And you need a date.”

“I don't need a date. I have Russ and Claire to keep me company. I just thought it would be nice if you came.”

She sighs, a deep, melancholic, conflicted sigh. “Here's the thing, Doug. I like you. But I need to know if you're at that stage where every time we start to get close you'll panic and pull away, because if you are, that's fine, I'll understand. I just don't want to be a part of the process.”

“I think I'm done with that,” I say.

“Just like that?” she says skeptically.

“Just like that.”

“Doug.”

“I mean it.”

“It's just way too early for this to be so complicated.”

“I know.”

She studies me for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. And suddenly it seems vitally important that she say yes. There are alternate fates stretching out before us like a fork in the yellow brick road, and everything that will happen from here on out is predicated on what happens in the next five seconds. And I know I said that fate is a crock, but I've been wrong before, and if I believed in God I would offer up a quick little prayer, and say,
God, you have fucked with me enough, and I'm giving you this chance right here to begin making amends,
but I don't so I can't, and all there is to do is sit nervously and wait for the moment to end. And the moment is taking its sweet time, is expanding like a big red balloon, and all I can do is sit here and try to look appealing while I wait for it to burst.

“Doug.”

“Brooke.”

She lets out another loud, slow sigh and shakes her head. “I have nothing to wear.”