“And what?” I said.
“Does that make you feel better? Telling me that? Are you hoping that I’m going to tell you not to worry about it? No hard feelings. All’s forgiven. And…and you’re not like your husband and son?” His voice was stronger now, and he was talking with his hands. I noticed calluses on them, and a deep, long cut on the back of his left thumb. The scab looked new.
I shook my head and said an adamant no, though deep down, I knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful. That was absolutely part of why I was here. I wanted him to know that I was a good person—at least I thought I was—and certainly not the type to offer bribes to get my way. “No….I’m here to tell you that I think it should go forward to the Honor Council,” I said softly. “I think you should make sure that it does.”
He looked at me and shrugged. “Okay. Fine. Noted. Is that all?”
“No,” I said. Because there was something else, too. Another reason I was there. I made myself say it at my own peril. “I’m also here to…ask about Lyla….How is she?”
A look of surprise crossed his face as he sat back a bit in his chair. Several seconds passed before he replied. “She’s fine,” he said.
“What’s she…like?” I said, preparing myself to be told off again. For him to tell me that was none of my business.
But instead he said, “She’s a sweet kid…but tough.”
I nodded, sensing I was about to be dismissed. “Well…will you please tell her that I’m so sorry?”
He ran his hand over his stubble, then leaned forward, staring into my eyes. “Why are you sorry, Nina? Do you think you’re to blame for what your son did?”
I hesitated, thinking, and then replied, “Yes. I do, actually. At least in part.”
“And why’s that?” he pressed.
“Because,” I said. “I’m his mother. I should have taught him better.”
* * *
—
AFTER LEAVING THE East End and crossing back over the Woodland Street Bridge, I couldn’t make myself go home. Instead, I wound my way through Lower Broadway—the heart of Nash Vegas—with all of its neon honky-tonks and juke joints that I hadn’t been to since the last of my friends’ bachelorettes. It was a shame we didn’t come here more—I love live music at Robert’s and Layla’s and Tootsies. But it really isn’t Kirk’s thing, unless he’s wasted—in which case, it isn’t my thing.
I kept driving, all around downtown, eventually turning onto Sixth Avenue, slowing as I passed the Hermitage. The same valet who had opened the Uber door for me the night of the Hope Gala was out in front again, and I found it almost impossible to believe that it had been only five days since the incident. So much had changed since then—or at least so much had been acknowledged in my own heart.
My phone vibrated in my purse with an incoming call. I didn’t check to see who it was as I drove around the Capitol, then up into Germantown. Realizing I was hungry—famished—I pulled into City House. It had been a long time since I’d eaten a meal alone in public, and it felt liberating to sit at the bar by myself. Not only did Kirk dictate where we went but he always picked our table, too, and often ended up ordering for us. “Why don’t we split the beef tartare and a chopped salad, and then get the trout and the rib eye?” he’d suggest because those were his four favorites. Passivity wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but I made a mental note to start making my own menu selections. Baby steps.
At that moment, I went with a margherita pizza and a Devil’s Harvest that the bartender brought in a can. He started to pour it into a glass, but I stopped him and said I’d do it, thank you. My phone vibrated again. This time I checked it, finding missed calls and texts from both Kirk and Finch, asking me where I was, when I’d be coming home, if I wanted to join them at Sperry’s for an early dinner. I could tell they’d been communicating with each other, as their texts were worded so similarly, and I wondered what that meant. Was Kirk manipulating me? Or were they both just appropriately worried and upset? I wasn’t sure, but I wrote them both back on a group thread, saying that I’d forgotten I “had something” and they “should just go ahead without me.”
After finishing my pint and eating more pizza than I think I’d ever had in one sitting, I paid the bill and got back in my car. I drove aimlessly, headed toward the West End, ending up in Centennial Park, where Kirk and I used to take Finch, beginning when he was only a baby in a stroller. I tried to pinpoint my favorite stage of his life—our lives together—deciding that our best years were during middle elementary. Third and fourth grades, ages eight and nine or so, when Finch was old enough to really articulate his opinions and have interesting conversations with me, but still young enough to hold my hand in public. The halfway point of childhood. God, I missed those days so much.
As I sat on the steps of the Parthenon, which housed the art museum where we used to stroll as a family, one memory rushed back to me. It was late fall, both of us wearing jackets, and I sat in a spot close to this one while Finch collected leaves pretending to make rutabaga and collard green stew. He’d learned the words from a children’s song, the lyrics all coming back to me now: Victor Vito and Freddie Vasco Ate a burrito with Tabasco They put it on their rice, they put it on their beans / on their rutabagas, and on their collard greens! I thought of how much Finch had loved to sing and dance. How much he’d enjoyed music and art and cooking.
“Girly things,” Kirk had called them, always worrying that I was making our son “too soft.”
I told him that was ridiculous, but at some point, I caved to my husband’s wishes, allowing Finch’s free time to be filled with more mainstream boy activities. Sports and technology (Kirk’s interests) replaced music and art (mine). I was fine with that—I just wanted our son to be true to himself—but with hindsight, I had the feeling that he was following in his father’s footsteps. In all ways.
Maybe it was an oversimplification, as I know a person isn’t the sum of his hobbies. But I couldn’t help feeling that I had lost my son. Lost both of them. I longed to go back. Do things differently. Give Finch fewer material possessions and more of my time. I would have tried harder to keep talking to him, even when he no longer wanted me to.
I thought back to my own time line—the uptick of my philanthropic work and all the socializing in those same circles that began a few years ago. How that swirl of activity happened to coincide with both the sale of Kirk’s company and the onset of Finch’s teenage years. It was hard to say which had happened first, but I wasn’t blameless. I thought about the hours I spent on the trivial things that had become so integral to my life. Meetings and parties and beauty appointments and workouts and tennis games and lunches and, yes, even some very worthwhile charity work. But to what end? Did any of that really matter now? What was more important than squeezing in a conversation with my son about respecting women and other cultures and races? I thought about Kirk and the hundred-dollar bills in my bag—how they pretty much summed up his approach to life, at least recently.