Chapter ELEVEN
Nick sat at the Gallaghers’ country-style kitchen table and marveled at how so many fathers managed to raise sons without strangling them.
Across from him, arms folded against his chest, hands clenched into fists beneath his biceps, lips set to sneer, sat Bobby Gallagher. Next to a plate with a half-eaten pizza slice was a marked-up copy of the latest version of his college application essay. He’d barely glanced at it.
“Your mother said tomorrow’s the deadline, right?” Nick asked. Bobby gave a half nod.
“Well, then. Are you interested in reviewing the suggestions?”
Bobby had never been what anyone would describe as polite in the three months since they’d met, but he’d never before been so openly hostile as his glare made him out to be now.
Maybe he was just angry that he couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Maybe he was upset that Nick had the nerve to make even more suggestions after two previous drafts. Maybe Bobby thought—as Nick had to admit was often his own attitude when he submitted his articles to the magazine—that the essay was perfect as is and resented any feedback that questioned its brilliance.
Not that previous occasions had given Nick reason to expect any sign of gratitude. Whenever Peggy wasn’t involved in some charitable event or dealing with a family issue and agreed to “get together”—a strange way to describe a date—Bobby preferred to ignore Nick rather than subject himself to his mother’s orders while she “made some final adjustments” in getting ready for the night out. Without exception, those orders were to review progress on the essay with “Mr. Warrington,” and almost without exception, Bobby had barely changed a word of it since the previous visit. But since it was obvious the two of them weren’t going to discuss batting averages or the NFL draft, Nick usually just edited the thing while Bobby scowled.
Nick actually liked the piece more than Bobby seemed to. Instead of waxing grand on why he wanted to expand his horizons during his forthcoming university years, Bobby had written about a homeless woman he saw frequently on the streets of Woodlake. He described her vividly, if ungrammatically, along with his “feelings of uneasiness” at driving by her in an expensive automobile. And rather than rant against the injustices of today’s society and how an education at the University of X would prepare him to someday address these important issues, which have always been of burning importance for him blah blah blah, Bobby took a different tack. He “confessed” that the old lady living in her cardboard box did not change his desire to earn money—lots of it. But what the old lady did do, he wrote, was make him realize that he was one of the lucky ones. And even if he worked for a huge company and made a lot of money and even if he in some direct or indirect way helped widen the gulf between the rich and poor in this country, he would always remember that, compared to that lady and thousands and thousands like her, he was lucky. And with luck came responsibility to not screw it up.
“Losers,” Bobby wrote in his final sentence, “blow it.”
While Nick appreciated the essay’s youthful candor, he wasn’t convinced that an admissions officer was going to chase after a candidate whose primary motivation was to avoid making a mistake. Recognizing the irony of his own eagerness not to “blow it” with Bobby, Nick had originally decided on a tops-of-the-trees revision strategy. He’d gently suggest rephrasing some of the sentences to put a more positive spin on the piece without sacrificing its voice or its vibrancy. He’d demonstrate the proper use of the semicolon, the correct placement of a comma or period when used with quotation marks, and the logical structure of a powerful, persuasive argument.
Bobby, of course, couldn’t have cared less. He treated Nick with the disdain of a jock listening to the class nerd explain the dangers of dangling participles.
Even now, feeling the seventeen-year-old bore holes in his face with his glare, Nick chalked it up to the understandable suspicion that any teenager might have about a man dating his mother. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it if his own widowed father started dating a woman tomorrow, and he hadn’t so much as spoken to the man in a year. Of course, Bobby’s dad wasn’t dead, which probably made seeing his mother with another man all the more upsetting. He once asked Peggy if this might be the reason Bobby seemed at times—Nick chose his words carefully here—offended at something about him or perhaps at something he had said.
“I doubt his father has anything to do with this,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “It’s probably oedipal.”
“Oedipal?”
“Yeah, you know—the guy who had sex with his mother.”
“Yes, yes, I know what it means.” But his unasked question was this: Did all mothers consider the possibility that their sons wanted to sleep with them, or did Peggy have some deeply subconscious and creepily incestuous but unrealized belief that all men found her attractive, even her son?
Whatever the reason for Bobby’s insolence, Nick couldn’t help growing increasingly irritated every time his attempts at small talk were met with a grunt, shrug, or eye roll.
But then, three nights ago, he received an e-mail from Peggy with her son’s essay attached. Finally got him 2 get off his a** and input your suggestions. Wld u mind taking one FINAL (promise) peek? Dedline in 3 days. Any suggestions will b appreciated!!! Me
It was the promising “Me” that spurred Nick to open the document, print it, and get to work immediately. Bobby had indeed made a few changes, but missed quite a few others, which Nick reiterated in the margins and then wrote what he thought was a congratulatory note at the end, telling Bobby it was a fine essay and wishing him all the best with his application. But judging from the way Bobby was ignoring the paper now, it would be a while before he read that hopefully rapport-building message.
“Something wrong?” Nick asked, finally.
“Just wondering,” Bobby said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m wondering,” Bobby said, slowly, “what kind of loser agrees to correct some kid’s spelling . . . just so he can have sex with that kid’s mother.”
Nick sat back. Clearly, it had been a long time since he’d been a teenager. But didn’t a few generations have to pass before things came to this, when even the kids from “good” homes so easily and profanely expressed their disrespect and disdain?
He heard noises overhead. Peggy, getting ready for their night out. The sounds of her footsteps, of a door or a drawer opening and closing, somehow spoke to the accusation. Why else had he, Nick, called Peggy last night to say that he’d read the essay and caught a few typos and was ready to review it with Bobby—and, oh, by the way, did she like jazz? Nick blushed, which only stoked his anger. What did this kid, this spoiled near-illiterate, know about his intentions? While the idea of having sex crossed Nick’s mind more and more frequently as he continued seeing Peggy, the act itself was far less alluring to him than being with Peggy. Releasing sexual tension, he’d shamefully rediscovered after Marilyn’s death, wasn’t all that difficult. What was difficult was being alone. The more he saw Peggy, the more he realized how much he missed just being with someone, spending time with a friend. Well, not just a friend: a woman. Just to feel, if only for a few hours, like part of a couple, to smell perfume, to marvel at smooth skin and delicate lines and softness.
“Look, Bobby,” Nick said, quietly, looking directly into Bobby’s sullen eyes. “I’ve been doing this as a favor to your mom. She apparently believes you’re much smarter than this essay would lead someone else—such as a university or college admissions officer—to believe. If you don’t want my help, fine. But if you intend to sit there with your hands in your armpits and insult me and, by inference, your mother, then screw you.”
Bobby’s eyes widened, but only for a moment.
“I’m not changing this into some phony, kiss-ass essay.” He sounded to Nick just a little less sure of himself.
“Have I ever suggested that?” Nick asked. He pointed at the paper. “What you’ve got there is good. But it won’t work with too many typos and too many disjointed thoughts. If you want me to help you fix those, fine. If not, that’s fine, too. Enjoy minimum wage.”
That finally elicited the reaction Nick had all but given up hoping for. Bobby actually laughed.
Nick moved to the chair next to Bobby’s and began walking through the paragraphs. He explained how to correct a few run-on sentences that had been pointed out before, the proper use of “it’s” instead of “its,” and—here he started losing Bobby again—how to correct several confusing disagreements between pronouns and antecedents. He resisted, as he had during previous reviews, the frequent temptation to ask Bobby, “Didn’t they teach you this stuff in grade school?” When they finished reviewing the paper, Bobby didn’t exactly rush off to revise his work and get it ready for submission the next day, but he did grumble a “thanks” before calling out to his mother that he was going out.
Now the kitchen was empty. Nick hoped Peggy would be ready soon. They were running late as it was, and he’d paid a lot for the tickets. He was especially eager to hear Sonny “Bones” Markham, billed as a top up-and-coming jazz pianist. Marilyn had always loved jazz; it was after a jazz concert, in fact, that she snuck Nick up into her dorm room to spend the night with her. It was most excellent foreplay, she had said of the jazz. From that point on, Nick got serious about his collection.
“Nick?”
The voice startled him.
“Next to the fridge, on the wall. The intercom.”
Nick chuckled as he found it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever before been in a house big enough to need an intercom. He pressed the talk button. “Kitchen to Base. Do you read me? Over.”
“Nick, I’m so sorry.”
What was she was apologizing for? Her lack of appreciation for his corny intercom talk? Her tardiness? He reflexively checked his pocket for the tickets, and then pressed the talk button again. “Everything all right, Peg?”
“It’s just that I can feel another of these damned migraines coming on.”
Migraines had been among the worst aspects of Marilyn’s ordeal. She started getting them when she began chemotherapy. When one set in, she needed to stop moving immediately. It freaked Nick out, the way she’d lie there, so still, barely breathing on the bed, or on the kitchen floor, or in the upstairs hallway, wherever she happened to be when the attack began. He wanted to lift her up and cradle her head, or just settle next to her and hold her hand, the way they often did at night as they fell asleep. But Marilyn would plead with Nick to just block out the light. All light. He would do his best, stepping around her as quietly possible. He always felt he was getting an unwelcome preview of what was ahead: Marilyn on her back, eyes closed; Nick looking down at her, helpless and hopeless. And then she would ask Nick to leave.
So much for seeing Bones Markham tonight.
He pressed the button. “How can I help?” he asked.
“It’s not bad yet, but I know from experience that it’s going to get worse.” Her voice sounded staticky, but strong. “I’m so sorry, Nick, but I just don’t think I can go out tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just feel better. Marilyn used to get these and she—”
He let go of the button. When was he going to stop making this mistake? It was pitiful, really, this constant referencing.
He pressed the talk button. “Can I bring you a glass of water or something?”
“It’s okay, Nick. Really. I’ve found that these things just take time. I’m glad you understand. And I’m sorry, but can you show yourself out?”
“Of course. Feel better. I’ll call you.”
He waited for her reply, but it didn’t come. She must have collapsed back on her bed, awaiting the agony. He wondered if he should take a glass of water up to her, but decided against it. She needed complete quiet. He picked up his keys from the kitchen table and took Bobby’s dish with the pizza scraps to the sink. Since he knew firsthand that the last thing Peggy would want to see if she came downstairs to get aspirin or something stronger was a pile of dirty dishes, he found a dish towel, threw it over his shoulder, and got to work.
It was nice, actually, standing at the kitchen sink, in front of a window that looked out onto a nicely maintained backyard. The hot water was calming, the task of drying somehow important, and the feeling of someone else in the house was incredibly comforting. He took his time.
Since jazz wasn’t on the agenda, he needed a new plan for the evening. There was the article that Ginny had just assigned him, but why ruin the evening completely by even thinking about Ginny Eastland?
A perfectly nice young woman, Ginny. Early thirties. Good figure. Probably married to some yuppie broker or software genius, judging from the clothes she paraded about in, clothes that most people on the editorial end of publishing can’t afford. It wasn’t her fault that the industry was changing. She wasn’t to blame for last month’s reorganization. She might even be excused for the condescending way she’d described to him the “new direction” of the company by explaining her suggestion that Nick give the “telecommute thing” a try. The message was clear enough: telecommute or terminate. “We want fresh,” she’d said. She also encouraged him to freelance on the side, which only a complete buffoon would confuse with anything other than an undisguised hint that the squeeze-out was on. But she kept sending him assignments, and he had to be grateful for that. Hadn’t he?
Focus on the positive, he told himself as he dried his hands on the dish towel and draped it along the rim of the sink. He let himself out of the house, careful to close the door quietly. Even the slightest sounds were murder on migraines.
In his car, he turned on the Bones Markham CD he had planned to play for Peggy on their way to the concert. He was about to make a right turn at the stop sign at the end of her road when a car making a left went way out of its lane and nearly hit the front of Nick’s car. Nick slammed on the horn. The other driver didn’t even turn his head as he gave Nick the finger.
He was sure that his headlights had made it impossible for his own face to be seen, much less recognized. But Nick definitely saw and recognized the other driver.
A car that had pulled up behind his tooted gently.
“F*ck you!” Nick yelled. He had to wait for a line of cars coming from the left to pass before he could execute—to less friendly honking now—a U-turn back onto Peggy’s road.
Can’t be him, he said as he drove back toward the house. I’m being paranoid.
But there was a car in her driveway and a shaft of life emanating from the front door as he drove by. Careful to maintain a non-stalking speed, he saw Peggy, dressed in a sleek black cocktail dress, stepping aside to let Peter Jackson enter.
He used a driveway a few houses down from Peggy’s to turn around. He made his way home slowly, focusing carefully on the posted speed limits. He maintained a safe distance from the car in front of him. He kept the radio off. He declined the option of turning right on red, with caution, unless there was a car behind him. Whenever he moved his foot from the gas pedal to the brake, or vice versa, the tickets in his pocket cut into his thigh.
He hesitated at the front door. Inside, the house was ready in the event that the outcome of the my-place-or-yours decision was his. Nick had spent most of the day scouring the downstairs bathroom and especially the master bath, paying particular attention to the toilets and the floor around them. He made sure the kitchen was spotless, the refrigerator free of old cheese or other malodorous items. A bottle of chardonnay sat expectantly on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator door. He had vacuumed the bedroom rug and dusted the dressers and bedside tables, apologizing to Marilyn as he put the pictures of the two of them inside drawers, out of sight. Now, as he let himself into the house, he felt the need to formulate another apology, as if she were sitting on the steps just inside the front door, waiting for his explanation.
When he and Marilyn had bought the house, he’d wired it so that the music he selected from his system in the den could be heard throughout. In this way, he and Marilyn were able to “christen” the house by making love in each room, accompanied by John Coltrane or Miles Davis. Nowadays, Nick always left the radio on whenever he left—not to fool a potential burglar, but because he hated the silence of returning to an empty house.
He craved that silence now. Slamming the door behind him, he went to the den and turned the music off. As he did so he saw, on one of the shelves, a picture of Marilyn. The picture had been taken at the Indiana Dunes on Lake Michigan. It had always been one of his favorites. She was sitting on the beach at sunset, hugging her knees, smiling at him like a promise.
He grabbed the picture, lifted it high over his head, and, after a half-second hesitation and with a downward swoop of his arm, threw the picture on the floor in front of him. It landed face up, the glass cracked but not shattered. A jagged line ran across Marilyn’s knees; the sun behind her now the center of a glassy spider’s web.