After Wes’s friends had left, Dance herded Maggie from the den and the two ladies prepared dinner. Whole Foods had been instrumental – sushi, a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and a complicated salad, which included cranberries, some kind of mystery seed, bits of cheese and impressive cro?tons.
Boling set the table.
As she watched him her thoughts segued to the two of them, Dance and Boling.
The hours he spent with her and the children were pure comfort. The times she and he got away alone for a rare night at an inn were so very fine too. (He never stayed the night when the children were here.) All was good.
But Kathryn Dance wasn’t long a widow. She monitored the pulse of her figurative heart, on the lookout for subconscious blips that might sabotage the relationship – the first since Bill’s death. She was not going to make fast decisions, for her own peace of mind, and the children: they were the north star by which she and Boling navigated their relationship. And it was Dance’s job to be in control. To keep the speed brakes on.
Then her hand, holding a large spoon, paused as it scooped mashed potatoes from carton to bowl. And she asked herself: Or is there another reason I’m keeping things with Jon Boling slow?
He looked up from the table and caught her eye. He smiled. She sent one his way too.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ she called.
Wes joined them, pulling a juice from the fridge.
‘Put the phone away. No texting.’
‘Mom, just—’
‘Now. And how can you text and open a Tropicana?’
He mumbled but his eyes grew wide when he saw the potatoes. ‘Awesome.’
As they sat down, Maggie said, ‘Are we going to say grace?’
This was new. The Dance household was not particularly religious.
‘We can if you’d like to. What do you want to say thanks for?’
‘Thanks?’
‘Grace is where you say thanks to God for something.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie said. ‘I thought it was where you asked for something.’
‘Not grace,’ Boling explained. ‘You can pray for things but grace is where you thank somebody else.’
‘What did you want to ask for?’ Dance looked at her daughter’s face, which revealed no emotion.
‘Nothing. I was just wondering. Can have I the butter, please?’
CHAPTER 26
Antioch March walked into a restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf and got a table near the window.
Tourism on steroids. Nothing like the days of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, he guessed.
He ordered a pineapple juice and looked at his prepaid once again. Nothing on the information he was expecting.
March ordered a calamari steak with steamed vegetables.
‘Sorry, they’re only sautéed. I don’t think the chef—’
‘That’s okay. I’ll take them that way.’
Another sip of juice. He opened his gym bag and began looking over maps and notes – what was planned for tomorrow. The theater had been denied him, set him back a day, but this would be just as good. Even better, he now reflected.
He glanced around the restaurant. He wasn’t worried about being recognized. His appearance was very different from what had been reported. What a stroke of luck that the police had released his description to the public and not kept it to themselves. If the theater employee hadn’t given that away, he might be in jail now.
Or dead.
He was studying a family nearby. Parents and two teenagers, all looking like they should be enjoying the pier more. In fact, it was a little anemic. Shopping mostly. No rides, except fifty cents bought little kids a turn on a space ship, up and down, in front of a shell shop.
Family …
Antioch March’s father had been a salesman – yes, a real, honest-to-God traveling salesman. Industrial parts, American made (though maybe some components, tiny ones, had been teamed together in China. Dad, politically conservative, had been less than forthcoming about that).
The food came and he ate. He was hungry. It had been a long time since McBreakfast.
March’s father was never home, his mother either, though she hadn’t traveled much. She worked a lot, though young Andy could do the math. Shift over at five but not home till seven thirty or eight, for a shower, then downstairs to ask about her boy’s day as she made him supper.
Not every day. But often enough. Andy didn’t care. Mom could do what she wanted. He had what he needed. He had his video games.
‘How’s your calamari, sir?’ the young waitress asked, as if she really, really cared.
‘Good.’
She tipped him with a smile.
March used to think that was the reason he was drawn to, well, less healthy interests than his classmates: Dad never around, Mom tackling her own Get in her own special way. Plenty of free time as a boy. The solitary games.
Come on, Serena.
A little closer, Serena.
Look what I have for you, Serena …
Was he angry at their absence? March honestly couldn’t say if he would have turned out different if he’d spent his evenings curled up in jammies as Mom or Dad read Lord of the Rings to him.
No, not much anger. Sure, Markiatikakis became March but that just made sense. He kept Antioch, didn’t he?
Though I prefer Andy.
And he’d followed in his father’s shoes. Life on the road. Life in business. And he was a salesman in a way.
In the employ of the website.
And working for his main boss.
The Get.
He could recall the exact moment of coining the term. In college. Hyde Park, U of C, the week of exams. He’d aced a few of them already and was prepared, completely prepared, for the rest. But he’d lain in bed, sweating and chewing on the inside of his cheek with compulsive molars. He’d tried video games, TV to calm down. No go. He’d finally given up and picked up a textbook for his Myths in the Classical World as Bases for Psychological Archetypes. He’d read the book several times and was prepared for the test but, as he flipped through the pages, he came across something he hadn’t paid attention to. In the Oedipus story, where a son kills his father and sleeps with his mother, there was this line that referred to Oedipus as ‘the get of Jocasta and Laius’.
The get …
What did that mean?