The Rebuilding Year (21 page)

John shifted in his seat. He was horny as hell, and everything Ryan said this morning seemed to have a double meaning. Moving around the kitchen in the pre-dawn dimness, it had been hard to avoid brushing up against the man accidentally-on-purpose. Hard not to look where he wanted to, touch what he wanted. Mark’s stumbling entrance had them jumping apart guiltily, even though they were already standing three feet apart. Going back to being platonic was going to be a hell of a challenge.

Ryan had fed the boy, joking with him lightly. Gradually Mark’s monosyllabic grunts had expanded to actual sentences. John had watched, feeling a little jealous of both of them.

“Speak for yourself,” John said. “I’m a responsible adult.”

“So, Mark,” Ryan asked. “If I go car shopping next weekend, do you want to come with me?”

“I guess.” There was reluctant interest in the boy’s tone. “What kind of car do you want to get?”

“Well it has to be used, because I’m broke. What I really
want
is a Corvette. But since I’m buying it to drive in Wisconsin in the winter, I’ll have to be a bit more practical than that.”

“You’re, like, old,” Mark said. “Why don’t you have a car already?”

“I did,” Ryan said easily. “A classic Mustang, actually. Which is part of the reason I’m now broke, ’cause maintenance was expensive. But the ’Stang was a stick shift, and I couldn’t drive it after I got hurt, so I sold her.”

“Oh. Right.” Mark looked down.

“So I need an automatic, but there’s no reason it can’t be a fun car. Maybe a Miata.”

“In Wisconsin. In winter. In a household with three people,” John said.

Ryan grinned. “Mark wouldn’t mind riding in the trunk, would you, kid?”

Mark turned to John. “You know you’re renting a room to a crazy person, right?”

John hid a smile. Mark and Ryan had hit it off well at Christmas, and Ryan seemed to have the right touch to get them back in that easy relationship again. “His money’s as green as anyone’s.”

They turned onto campus, and John pulled over in front of Brennan Hall to let Ryan out. Ryan wrestled his backpack out from behind the seats and hefted his cane.

“Watch the ice, guy,” John told him lightly.

“See you tonight.”

John lingered long enough to see Ryan find his footing up the front steps, and then pulled around to the staff parking lot. His office was in the basement of Croft. He found Juan and Kwame waiting for him, and introduced Mark to the guys.

Juan wasn’t what he’d expected from a Mexican when he’d first taken over the job. He was tall, bulky and quiet, with pale grey eyes in his tanned face. At near fifty, he had been around the campus a long time and knew it well. At first, John had tried to consult with the man, soliciting his opinion. But John had found that all Juan wanted was to be given a task and left in peace to do it. He would answer a direct question in the fewest possible words. He imagined Detective Carstairs had probably not enjoyed her interview with the man.

Kwame was short and dark. His skin was the deep black that US-born African-Americans rarely had. He was a whiz with things mechanical, but this morning John assigned him a bag of ice-melt and the building stairs, while having Juan drive the sidewalk plow. Kwame was squinting today, which usually meant he was hungover. And while the man never shirked his work, he did noisy jobs slowly, on his bad days.

John could sympathize. He had the feeling Kwame drank to forget, not to party. John had been there himself often enough in the year following the divorce. As long as Kwame never came to work drunk, or ditched the job, John could make it a little easier on him.

John got shovels out for himself and Mark, and led the way to the rose garden. This spot was one of his favorites. A series of paths wound through flowering bushes and climbing arbors. This part of Wisconsin was really borderline cold for growing roses, and John had to use all his skill to keep them healthy. The last thing he wanted was to have the motorized plow dumping packed ice on them. But the alternative was doing the job by hand.

He got Mark started at one end, showing him where the path went, and where he wanted the excess snow. Then he started at the other end. He could watch Mark while he worked. The kid was going at it with a will. He was trying to follow directions and use his knees not his back while shoveling. John could see when he forgot and started bending, and then remembered and tried to squat and lift. He was working hard.

That was part of what bothered him most about Mark’s complaints last night—Mark admitting that he’d stopped working, stopped trying. Because Mark was the kid who didn’t need to be pushed. Torey was a different story. Everything came so easy for her, she didn’t see why she should make any effort. It took a firecracker to pry her away from her books or the TV to do her chores. Mark was the one who would remember to clear the dishes or take out the trash, and do it without being asked. Mark had been known to do his homework days before it was due. If he’d quit trying, then something important was broken.

John thought about his conversation with Cynthia. She had minimized his concerns about Mark. She insisted that Mark was jealous of the coming baby, that he didn’t want to work hard enough to meet the standards of a rigorous school. He just needed more discipline. John heard Brandon’s influence in everything she said. As if she’d given up control of Mark to her husband. He ground his teeth, and pitched snow with a will.

Before he realized it, he was bumping his shovel into Mark’s. He looked up. The kid had managed to do close to half of the work. It was pretty impressive.
This kid does not need discipline to be made to work.

Mark was looking up into his face. “Are you really mad at me, Dad?”

“Huh?” John realized he was scowling. “No, Son. I’m mad at…” At the last moment he substituted “Carlisle” for “your mother”
.
He forced himself to relax. “I gave that guy the two most precious things in my life to take care of—you and your sister. And he messed it up. So I’m pretty angry with him.”

“It wasn’t
all
his fault,” Mark admitted.

“No,” John agreed. “You own a piece of this mess, and your mother does. I’m at fault too. You were here for a week, and I didn’t notice you were that unhappy, and you didn’t feel able to tell me. That’s on me.” He felt a twinge of guilt.
If I hadn’t been so obsessed with Ryan at the time, would I have paid more attention to Mark?
He shrugged for Mark’s benefit. “But I’m kinda fond of you and me. And I even still care about your mother. So it’s easier to be mad at Brandon Carlisle.”

Mark cracked a small smile.

“Come on,” John said. “Warm-up break.” He led the way into the utility room of Robinson Hall, and pulled off his gloves. He’d been sweating with exertion, but his fingers were chilled. He blew on them. Beside him, Mark unzipped his jacket and pulled off his borrowed gloves. John spotted a red mark and caught his son’s hand for a closer look.

“That’s a pretty good blister you’ve got there,” he said. “You should have told me.”

Mark inspected it with a shrug. “I didn’t even feel it till now.”

“Still, enough shoveling for you.” John rummaged in his pocket. “Here’s a twenty.”

“Dad you don’t have to.”

“Don’t turn down free money,” John quipped, and then hesitated.
Is that the right message to give a kid?
“If it really is free. I mean, usually if someone’s offering what looks like free money, there’s a catch in it somewhere and…you’re laughing at me.”

“Dad, you don’t have to be Yoda, font of all wisdom. Give me the money.”

“Go get yourself a snack,” John told him. “You know where the student center is. Then go to the library. And you know what you
can
do for me? Make a list. All the things you liked about living in California, and all the things you don’t. And then what you’re hoping will change by moving here. Tonight we have to have a serious conversation with your mother, and it’ll help to have ideas written down.”

“I can try.”

“You have your cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Set it to silent in the library.”

Mark sighed. “Yes, Father.”

John took a swipe at his kid’s head. “Go away now.”

Mark’s grin was almost his old familiar one.

By lunchtime, John had made a good start at the secondary cleanup, the less used doors and steps, and the rougher paths where the plow couldn’t go. Fortunately the college had a plow service for the roads and parking, so he didn’t have to worry about those. Except when the service pushed snow from the lots up onto his newly cleared sidewalks.
Damn.
He paused to re-shovel an obscured path.

He met with his crew, gave them directions for the afternoon, and sent them on break. When his office was clear, he glanced at his watch. 11:55. Ryan would be done with Histology lab. John really needed a hit of Ryan’s presence in his life. He pushed the speed dial.

“Hey, you.” Ryan’s voice was warm.

“Hey. Done squinting through microscopes?”

“Absolutely. I’m going cross-eyed here.”

“Up for some lunch?”

“With Mark or without him?”

“Um.” It took a second for that to compute. Then John felt embarrassed.
What kind of dad forgets about his kid?
“I don’t know. I’ll call him in a minute. I sent him indoors to keep warm.”

“How about at The Gong?” Ryan said. “Mark might like the music. Unless, I forget, is it karaoke day?”

“Nope. Acoustic Tuesdays.”

“So I’ll see you there?”

“You want to come to my office first?” John asked, not sure if he was really serious. “I could lock the door.”

“I have a one-o’clock class.”

“I can work fast.”

John loved Ryan’s laugh. “With our luck someone would knock at just the wrong moment. I’ll see you at The Gong.”

John tried Mark’s phone but it went to voice mail.
Probably still in the library.
He texted the lunch invitation. It might be selfish, but he hoped the kid wouldn’t look at it. He wanted to sit and chat with Ryan without Mark as an audience. Even in a room full of other people.

The Gong was in the basement of the student center. It was student-run, through a co-op, and served an eclectic mix of food. It also served music. There was a small stage. Students could line up to perform for ten-minute sets. Beside the stage was a gong, though, and if you weren’t popular, your set might last a lot less than ten minutes. You never knew what you would hear, but some of the kids were very good.

John took the wide staircase down, and looked around. Ryan was just coming out of the elevator, and his face lit up as he caught sight of John. John let himself just watch the other man walk over to him. The limp was just part of Ryan now, and a slow deliberate pace brought other encounters to mind.

Ryan stopped in front of him. “Hungry?”

“Damn you.”

Ryan laughed. “Come on, let’s find a table. Is Mark coming?”

“I don’t know. I sent a text.”

The Gong was crowded at this hour, most of the tables full. John was scanning for an open one when Ryan said, “Hey, that’s Mark.”

John looked up. Ryan was staring at the stage. A trio was playing. A tall blond kid on flute, a shorter, stockier guy using a tub as an improvised drum, and sure enough, Mark on guitar.

“He didn’t bring his guitar this morning,” John said, puzzled.

“That’s not his, unless you’ve been spending a mint on him. Sounds good in his hands, though.”

They made their way over near the stage and listened. The music was vaguely familiar. The boy on flute got a clear, soaring sound from his instrument that made a unique counterpoint to Mark’s playing. The drummer had little range with his instrument, but did a lot with it. They played un-gonged through a full set, and got loud applause as they finished. Mark carefully handed the guitar to the drummer as they left the stage.

“That was amazing,” Mark said to the drummer as they made room for the pair of violins behind them. “God, I’ve never played anything that sounded like that.”

“And never will again until your dad hits the lottery,” Ryan said from behind him. “Hey, Mark, you guys were hot up there.”

Mark turned in surprise. “Ryan, Dad. What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were getting lunch,” John said, “But apparently we’re listening to you play first. Do you know these guys?”

“We just met,” the boy holding the guitar said. “Mark recognized my guitar and I let him try a few notes while we were waiting, and bingo, we were doing good. I’m Calvin, and this is Patrick.”

Mark turned to Calvin. “Thanks a bunch for letting me play with you. It was sweet.”

“You’re good,” Calvin said. “Better than good. In fact, I was wondering if you’re getting tired of whatever band you’re in, because we’re looking for a lead guitar, and you’re better than any of the guys who’ve auditioned so far.”

“Really?” Mark’s face lit up.

“Yes,” Patrick put in, “although some of them were pretty bad. We’re getting desperate.”

Ryan tugged Mark farther from the stage. “How about we take this to a table, if you’re serious. We’re blocking the stage.”