EPILOGUE
Fitz is sitting on the porch of his house. It is Saturday afternoon; he’s waiting for his dad to pick him up. He’s got his earbuds in, and he’s listening to a recording he and Caleb and Nora made. A song that’s almost but not quite there, one of Fitz’s new lyrics. “No Safety.” The tone of the lyrics is vaguely menacing, edgy, dangerous even, but Nora’s voice brings some sweetness to it, some sad, knowing quality. It’s about getting someone in your sights, taking aim, getting ready to hurt them or love them, it’s not clear, maybe both. Caleb thinks they’re onto something. If Fitz could only work out a slightly less boring bass part, and if he and Caleb could get together on the ending, it might be all right.
Nora is a full member of the band now, and they’ve got a new name: Dr. Eckleburg’s Spectacles. It’s a little shout-out to The Great Gatsby. Caleb likes the weirdness of it. He also thinks they should stay a trio. They’ve played together a few more times and the chemistry has been good, they sound good. They’ve worked up about a half dozen tunes, everything from more Ruth Brown to a bluesy, soulful version of “Something.” Fitz has some more new lyrics in his notebook he’ll show Caleb when the time feels right. One in particular might cause Nora some embarrassment, so he’s keeping it under wraps for now. Forget about finding a drummer. More trouble than they’re worth—that’s Caleb’s position. “Famously problematic,” he’s said more than once. “Curtis was so right. He nailed it.” Caleb talks about Fitz’s father quite a bit now, which he doesn’t mind, sort of likes, actually, although he hopes he’s got it through Caleb’s head that his father does not work for a record label.
What happened last month, Fitz’s little spree—they don’t talk about it, Fitz and Caleb, at least not directly. Working their way through some Johnny Cash covers a couple of days earlier, when Caleb got to the line in “Folsom Prison Blues” about shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die, he gave Fitz what he probably imagined was a significant look, some eyebrow italics. I didn’t shoot a man, Fitz felt like saying. I shot a tree. But he just kept playing, trying somehow to assume the air of a man haunted by a dark and guilty past.
Fitz is wearing the same jeans he had on the day he kidnapped his dad, only today he’s got nothing tucked in his waistband. It’s way more comfortable. It’s been a month since then, and a lot has happened.
His father has disposed of Fitz’s gun, for one thing. There was a buyback program. He knew a guy. No questions asked. “I wiped your prints,” he told Fitz, “just to be sure.” Fitz couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
His mom was right—there were consequences—but not necessarily the ones he was expecting. She hasn’t grounded him or anything like that. She didn’t lecture him. Instead, she seems intent on treating him in some new, perhaps more respectful and adult manner. She’s helped to arrange these outings with Curtis but always checks things with Fitz, doesn’t presume to know his mind, asks for him to sign off: Saturday work for you? She doesn’t quiz him afterward, even though he knows she’s curious.
Fitz is pretty sure she’s trying to make amends. It’s okay, he wants to tell her. That stuff I said, my rant, I was in some altered state. I didn’t mean it.
For his part, Fitz has tried to be scrupulously honest with her. He suspects his lies probably wounded his mom as much as anything he did that day, and he wants to earn back her trust. They’ve had a long talk, several actually, and Fitz has explained in detail what happened that day, his whole scheme—his misguided, foolish, crazy scheme, the likes of which he made clear he’ll never attempt again. He’s kept her excruciatingly well informed as to his whereabouts, the times of his departures and returns. He’s found things to do around the house without being asked. Last night he made dinner, just spaghetti and salad and garlic bread, which he semi-burned in the broiler, but she was super-appreciative. He wants her to know that if he gains a dad, she’ll be no less his mom. But there’s no way to say that to her face, which is why he made dinner.
Fitz is pleased that things between Annie and Curtis have been cordial. The night before, he heard her on the phone, and at first he assumed she was talking to her brother, Uncle Dunc—she had that smile in her voice. But it was him. Of course, he’s entertained the fantasy of the two of them together, but he knows it’s unlikely, Gatsby and Daisy living happily ever after. You can’t repeat the past. That’s like the theme of the book. Still. You can hope.
Today Fitz and his father are going to the guitar store. Curtis says he’s wanted to play for years but needs help picking out an instrument. He wants to get an acoustic, nothing fancy, something to learn on, and has asked Fitz if he’d be willing to show him the basics. Fitz tries to imagine himself teaching his father to play. Sharing some of the simple songs Uncle Dunc taught him when he was learning. “This Land Is Your Land.” “You Are My Sunshine.” Fitz can remember how long it took him to master a simple C chord, how his fingers ached. It’s not easy being bad at something, being a beginner, especially for a grown-up—Fitz gives his dad credit for being willing.
His dad pulls up, parks in front of the house, and gets out of the car. He’s wearing jeans and a striped polo and some pretty unfashionable sandal-like footwear. He looks a little like a model in a Father’s Day ad. He looks like someone dressed him for the first day of dad school. Fitz doesn’t mind. He likes that he seems to be trying. If he’s a little nerdy in his weekend wear, that’s okay with Fitz. It’s part of the whole dad package.
So what kind of dad is he? Fitz asks himself. He’s still not sure. Maybe he needs to do more fieldwork, more observation. Time will tell. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s a stupid question. What kind of dad is he? My dad. That’s who he is. In the end, maybe that’s all that matters.
He’s standing there now, right in front of him, his mouth moving, talking to him.
Fitz takes out his earbuds. He stands up. He feels his mom behind him, inside the screen door, watching.
“Fitz!” his father says. He is smiling. “You ready?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For support during the writing of this book, I am grateful to Canisius College; I am likewise grateful to my wonderful colleagues and students for their encouragement and inspiration. For sharing their expertise, I am indebted to Dave Alexander, Bill Gartz, Jesse Mank, and Ron Ousky. Thanks to Lon Otto for being a great reader and a great friend, to Jay Mandel for being such a wise and faithful guide for many years, and to Erin Clarke for her patience, kindness, and quiet brilliance. I am grateful, finally, to my family, Mary, Sam, and Henry, for the love and laughter that sustain me every day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICK COCHRANE was born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota, and remains a passionate fan of the Minnesota Twins. He is the author of two adult novels, Flesh Wounds and Sport, and a middle-grade novel, The Girl Who Threw Butterflies, which USA Today called “a lovely coming-of-age novel … seasoned with small doses of Zen, baseball lore and history.”
Mick lives with his family in Buffalo, New York, where he is a professor of English and Lowery Writer-in-Residence at Canisius College. You can visit him online at mickcochrane.com.