Felix slumped back in his chrome chair and watched, amazed. In the window behind Harry and the waitress, traffic crawled to a stop.
“Not necessarily. You don’t want to be around me when I’m off my meds and manic.” She twirled the pen through her fingers.
“I bet it feels good sometimes, the mania.”
“Yeah, man. It does. Not for other people, though.”
“Yeah.” Harry nodded.
“Right.” Her voice brightened. “You guys need a few minutes?”
“Nah.” Harry grabbed the menu. “Italian cream soda, please. Vanilla. And . . . oh yeah. One of those.” He pointed at the words warmed chocolate chunk cookie. “Thanks for bringing me here, Dad. This is fantastic!” He rocked back and forth in his chair.
Felix picked up the menu, studied it, and put it down. “Perrier. Thank you.”
“Coming right up.” The waitress smiled at Harry and then disappeared.
“Dad—” Harry looked down at the floor and looked back up with big puppy-dog eyes. He cracked his knuckles, and Felix winced. “I haven’t had my allowance for the last two weeks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Harry shrugged. “You’ve been kinda busy. I figured you’d catch on at some point.”
“But I didn’t,” Felix said slowly.
“No biggie. Can I order some songs on iTunes when we get home?”
Felix pulled out his wallet and pushed a twenty-dollar note across the table. “If you lose that, I’m not replacing it. And you can order up to five dollars’ worth of songs on my credit card.”
“Thanks, Dad!”
“We have to learn how to do this, how to trust each other.”
“You mean we need to be a family without Mom as the maypole.”
“You remember?”
“The village Morris dancers? Hell, yeah! And Saint John took us to that pub for a real ploughman’s lunch afterward, and Mom got wasted.”
“Tipsy.”
“Nah, Dad. She threw up in a rosebush, remember?”
“She underestimated the power of Pimm’s, despite my warnings.” Felix smiled. At the time, he had been furious, but now, with the power of hindsight, he saw Harry and Saint John giggling. He saw a family being a family. Warts and all.
His smile slipped away. There were so few memories with giggles.
Harry fidgeted and kept glancing toward the kitchen, his focus already broken.
Felix smoothed out the flyers he’d picked up at the desk. “There’s a sculpture made from what appears to be a crushed car in the lobby. That looks interesting.”
“Not really into cars, Dad.”
“Me neither.” Felix caught himself about to crack his own knuckles and stopped. “There’s a special exhibit on Archibald Motley. Jazz Age modernist. And there’s another installation with—hmm—impressive, if you like modern art”—he didn’t—“Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein that might appeal to you.”
“Oookay,” Harry said.
Was this a standoff, like a game of chicken?
“Be right back, Dad. Gotta find the restroom.”
And Harry was gone.
Harry ate the way he tackled life—fast, messily, and with lots of head bobbing.
The waitress came back to check if everything was okay. Felix replied, “Yes, thank you,” before Harry could speak with his mouth jammed full of food. Why had Ella not worked harder on his table manners?
“Something wrong, Dad?”
“Admiring the fact that you eat with such gusto,” Felix said. “While your mouth is wide open.”
Harry stopped midchew, then swallowed hard. “Starving.”
“Evidently.”
“Did you see the gift shop? They have jewelry. You should buy something for Mom, for Valentine’s Day.” Harry shoved more cookie into his mouth.
“We don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, Harry.”
“Maybe this is the year to start.”
“Maybe it is. Do you have a present for Sammie?”
Harry shook his head several times. (He never did anything once.) “Would you help me choose something?”
“Of course. Would you help me choose something for Mom?”