“Really?” I ask. “No Instagram? No TikTok? Nothing?”
He shakes his head. I’m acting lighthearted, but he seems serious. “You know, what’s funny is . . . social media is getting harder to define. We call Facebook and Twitter social media. But so is YouTube, Pinterest, Substack . . . Does that mean online comments sections are, too? I mean, you can get into a debate in the comments section of a newspaper. Even some retailers. Customer reviews can turn into cultural arguments.” He steps toward the counter and sets his drink down. He’s just across from me; I could reach out and touch him.
“Basically, all of the internet has become e-commerce and social media.”
“Paul,” I say, “are you hearing this?”
Still rinsing: “Uh-huh.”
I ask Michael, both to keep listening to him talk, which is deeply affirming his identity — his mannerisms, his inflections, all the same — and because I’m genuinely interested in his answer: “Okay, so what else do you think the internet could have been?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think it could have been anything else. I think it’s how human beings are. And what’s really interesting is how people increasingly treat social networks like public utilities. Like, if you don’t have Facebook, you won’t have access to certain information. That might be as part of a recreational group, or school, or work. But Facebook is a private company. It’s advertising to you. Can you imagine if you had a landline phone, and every few minutes it would ring, and it would be an ad for something?” He looks around at Joni, behind him. She offers a wan smile and plucks at the frayed ends of her jean shorts. Michael turns back to me. “Or if you answered, and it gives you some tidbit of news . . . and you have no idea where it’s coming from, or if it’s true . . .”
Did he just make a reference to something specific? Like the strange voicemail on my phone? I’m suddenly nervous, trapped in his blue eyes. But when he blinks and looks away, I remind myself that I’m in control of how I react. Besides, he’s just waxing philosophical.
Paul shuts off the tap at that moment and tears free a paper towel to dry the cleaned brush. “Michael studied media literacy at Colgate,” he says.
“I was a film and media studies major,” Michael clarifies.
“Wow, a carpenter who’s an intellectual? I didn’t know you went to Colgate. That’s a great school. It’s right near where Joni goes to Hamilton.”
Michael nods. “I had a scholarship. I played lacrosse.”
We continue to talk. Gradually, Joni seems to loosen up and even contributes to the conversation and laughs a few times. According to Michael, who says he grew up in Huntington, Long Island (not Sayville), lacrosse was a passion, and SUNY Stony Brook the obvious choice for his higher education.
But then his parents died. His father, who was a successful businessman working in the city, was also a heavy drinker. One night, Michael’s father and mother were on their way home from a function in Manhattan. Michael’s father swerved into a tractor-trailer on the highway. He and Michael’s mother were both killed right away.
Michael was seventeen, he says, a junior in high school.
“After that, everything changed. I didn’t want to go to Stony Brook. I didn’t want to go anywhere at all. I didn’t even want to live, to be honest.”
Joni is holding onto him, resting her chin on his shoulder. She kisses his neck and feathers her hand over his chest.
The question just pops out of me: “Who did you stay with?”
“No one. I mean, I didn’t go anywhere. My aunt and uncle actually came to stay with me.”
Interesting, I think. So close to the truth — in reality, Thomas, who lived in Westchester County, went to stay with his aunt and uncle on Long Island. In Michael’s twisted version — if it is, in fact, an alteration of the truth — he’s from Long Island, and his aunt and uncle came to stay with him.
“They believed that . . . well, that it would be best for me to stay in my house. Stick with my routine.”
Even more fascinating, I think, because evidence shows this to be an effective form of managing extreme grief for children — to keep things as consistent as possible. One might think that there would be too many painful reminders, but those painful reminders are preferable and mentally healthier for children than sudden, major change. Like having to move out and live with new people.
Did Michael research that for his story? Or did he just come up with it on his own?
I say, “That was very nice of them.”
“Yeah, they’re wonderful people.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
Joni’s eyes dart to me, like I’m being pushy. But Michael just smiles. “I’m sure you will.”
There is a moment of silence and I clear my throat. “So . . .”
“I did miss a few months of my junior year of high school. But I was able to get back on track and graduate on time.” His brow dimples in thought. “I was ready to leave Long Island by then. Colgate was my moonshot school. And I got in.”
“And that’s how you two met?” I point my finger between them. “Since Hamilton is so close? Because it obviously wasn’t social networking . . .”
Joni answers with a sigh. “I was going to save all of this for when Sean got here.”
“I’m sorry, honey.” Thinking of Sean, I check my phone again. Nothing. In truth, I’m kind of waiting for him, too. What’s in the offing is a sort of intervention, and it seems right Sean would be here. He’s insightful, kind. He could help with Michael.
“We met at a lacrosse game,” Joni says. “Our schools were playing each other. And I went with Liz and some of the others just for something to do. And there he was. I watched the way he played, the way he moved . . . Liz is dating one of the guys on our team, and so we were hanging around in the parking lot, and then Michael came out. And he looked right over at me . . .”
“Wait,” I say, cutting into their love-staring. “When was this?”
“Early this spring,” Joni says. “Just after Easter.”
Paul goes for the fridge. “That’s good,” he says. “You met the old-fashioned way, in person. That’s the best.” He gets a glass and pours himself some juice.
Michael’s story is forgery — it has to be. But meeting my daughter at a sports game? She just happened to be there? Either he’s gone a long way toward making it work — an incredibly long way, somehow timing things for her to meet him — or I’m missing something.
I could also be losing my mind. That’s a possibility, too.
For now, one more question: “So, Michael — you graduated this spring?”
He drags his eyes away from Joni and looks at me, shakes his head, appearing chagrined. “No, I, ah . . . Well, I’ll just be honest — my grades slipped and I lost my scholarship. Without it, I can’t afford to finish. And I need another year to get all my credits.”
Money, I think, suddenly and forcibly. Could this whole thing be about money? Extortion? Colgate is not a cheap school.