“Yeah, he does,” I said. “But I’m going to see if I can make him a little more self-sufficient.”
It was something I’d been thinking about. Just because Thomas believed in things that were not real didn’t mean he couldn’t make a contribution in the real world. I wanted to get him making his own meals, and helping out around the house. Maybe, if I started giving him responsibilities, it would keep him out of his room for longer intervals. Involve him, if not in the outside world, in the operations of the household.
“Well, we should let you go,” Len said. “Good to see you.”
“I keep meaning to drop by with a casserole for you boys,” Marie said. “Or maybe you’d like to come over for dinner?”
“That’s very kind,” I said. “I’ll talk to Thomas about that.” Fat chance, I thought, although dinner out with people he knew might be worth a try. A baby step out of the house. We’d already managed a trip to the psychiatrist without a major incident, so long as you didn’t count Thomas’s quarrels with Maria.
“Thomas still memorizing maps for when the big computer virus hits?” Len asked, a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.
I was caught off guard. “You know about that?”
“Your dad told me. I guess he needed to talk to somebody about it.”
Slowly, I nodded. Marie said, “Len, don’t bring that up. It’s none of your business.”
“It was. Adam told me,” he snapped at her, and Marie blinked. To me, he said, “Your dad was feeling the burden of it all, you know?”
So everyone seemed to be telling me.
I tapped on Thomas’s door and opened it far enough to stick my head in. “I’m back.”
Thomas, clicking away on his mouse, traveling with his back to me, said, “Okay.”
“And you’re making dinner.”
That got him to turn around. “What?”
“I thought I’d let you make dinner tonight.”
“I never make dinner.”
“Then all the more reason to start. I got some frozen stuff. It’ll be simple.”
“Why aren’t you making dinner? Dad always made dinner.”
“I’ve got a job, too,” I said. “You’ve got yours, and I’ve got mine. I’ve got calls to make, and I may have to bring back some of my stuff from Burlington—”
“Vermont.”
“Right, from Burlington, Vermont, so I can work here while we sort things out.”
“Sort things out,” Thomas said quietly.
“That’s right. I’ll walk you through it. How to put the oven on, all that stuff. But you’ll need to come down around five.”
I treasured Thomas’s shell-shocked expression as I closed the door.
Almost on cue, my cell rang. It was my agent, Jeremy Chandler, who’d been fielding job inquiries for me for the last ten years.
“I’ve got three jobs here for you but it’s not like the Sistine Chapel is asking you to paint a ceiling and you’ve got forty years to do it. These are magazines and one Web site, Ray, with deadlines. Looming deadlines. If you can’t do the work, I need to know now so I can farm these jobs out to other artists who, while not nearly as gifted as yourself, are clearly much hungrier.”
“I told you, I’m at my father’s place.”
“Oh shit, yeah, I forgot. He died, right?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what he did.”
“So, the funeral and all that stuff, is that over?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll be back in your studio when, exactly?”
“I have some stuff to deal with, Jeremy. I might have to set up a makeshift studio here temporarily.”
“Good idea. Otherwise, I’ll have to get Tarlington for these illustrations.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “The guy paints with his feet. His Obamas look like Bill Cosby. Every black guy he does looks like Bill Cosby.”
“Look, if you can’t take the job, you don’t get to criticize. Did I tell you, I heard from Vachon’s people?”
“Jesus.” Carlo Vachon, a noted Brooklyn crime family boss, was facing a slew of possible indictments on everything from murder to unpaid parking tickets. I’d been commissioned by a New York magazine to do a drawing of him in which I’d exaggerated all his physical features, particularly his girth, as he held a gun to the Statue of Liberty. In my version, she had both her arms in the air.
I was breaking out in an instant sweat. “Is there a hit out on me?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Apparently he loved the illustration and he wants to buy the original. The thing is with these mob guys, they love the attention, even when it’s not exactly positive.”
“You have the original?”
“I do.”
“Send it. No charge,” I said.
“Done. But that’s not even why I called.”
“What is it?”