STRAYS, page 3
But his last sentence makes me stop and think for a minute.
I’ve heard too many stories about what happens to kids who get caught up in the system. A roll of the dice if ever there was one. The kid could very well end up in some picket fence happily ever after. Or he might wind up getting trafficked by perverts.
The kid. MY kid.
The closest I’ve ever come to him is that morning five years in the past when I stared at the shape moving in his mother’s pregnant belly.
I don’t even know his name.
No, I can’t storm out of here. I can’t push Kevin Walsh out of his expensive chair and tie his testicles in a knot. All I can do is crush my cigarette on the surface of his polished conference table and hope that I’ve ruined it. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy pushing a yellow folder in my direction.
“I’ve taken the liberty of having his birth certificate changed to reflect his proper paternity. Most of Dana’s assets, once liquidated, will be placed in a trust for the boy when he comes of age but you are free to petition the trust for access to the necessary funds to help raise him. In fact, I think you should do that.” He opens the folder and thumbs through the papers before raising an eyebrow at me. “You’ll find all the proper documentation inside.”
I get it. He wants to wash his hands of the situation and yet be able to sleep at night. He figures that if I turn out to be a scumbag who will drain the trust and abandon the kid anyway then it’s not his fault because at least he tried. Every word out of his mouth is dusted with arrogance, like he’s expecting gratitude.
I swallow. “Where is he?”
Kevin Walsh is pleased that the matter is going to be settled. It’s still early in the day. He can go celebrate with a lunch of martinis and caviar, or whatever the fuck these kind of people eat. He reaches for a black box on the table and presses a button. “You can bring him in now.”
Seconds later the door opens and I stare into a face that takes me back in time. If we were in my hometown of Arcana then people would know him at a glance. They would nod their heads and whisper that he’s inherited the angry face of a Hempstead male. It’s true. He looks like me. I’ve thought about him a lot more than I wanted to since the day I jumped into a borrowed truck and left him behind.
“Say hello to your father, Oliver,” Kevin urges in a snotty voice that reminds me why he’s a lousy motherfucker.
I hold out my hand. How do you introduce yourself to your kid? “Hello.” I try out his name. “Oliver.”
He looks up at me. There’s anger and confusion in his eyes. His hands are balled into little fists.
Instead of answering with words or a handshake he kicks me. Hard.
The three days that have elapsed since then have not gone much better. At least Oliver hasn’t kicked me yet today. But I’m not kidding myself that he’s a member of my fan club either.
I hop out of the truck and walk around to the rear passenger side. I’m glad I don’t need to worry about the truck breaking down. It’s fairly new, bought with funds from a legit job I had making custom furniture, something I’m unexpectedly good at. Maybe the skill lives in the family blood. With a few tools and some sweat my dad was able to turn a simple hunk of wood into a freaking work of art. He used to let me and my brother pound away with hammer and nails in the garage until our mother had fits. The guy could probably build anything. He just wasn’t good at holding down a job. Other shit got in the way. Alcohol. Women. Gambling. My grandfather was good at woodworking too. In my parents’ closet there used to be a hand carved wooden box made by my grandfather in a high school shop class. It might have been the only physical thing my dad had left of his own father and it disappeared around the time he died. After that my mom lost the house, moved us to a trailer park and became a raging asshole.
I haven’t thought about that stupid box in years. It’s only on my mind now because I’ve been thinking about family. And about the things we inherit, both good and terrible.
The Hempstead men.
We can make coffee tables and we can kill.
What a legacy.
I wonder how long I can keep my son from finding out what kind of people he comes from.
Oliver squirms when I hold his hand on the way into the diner but after he tried to bolt at a gas station this morning I’m not taking chances.
The diner is practically empty. The waitress is charmed by the sight of us, assuming we’re some everyday father/son duo out for an ordinary meal. She supplies crayons and a paper menu that’s supposed to be scribbled on and I thank her even though Oliver makes a face.
“Okay.” I peer at the menu and make my voice sound cheerful. “Lots of good stuff on here. You can have a burger or you can have chicken nuggets. There’s mac and cheese and-“
He snatches the menu. “I can READ.”
“That’s great.” I didn’t know he could read. I can’t remember if I could read at that age. My brother Jonathan probably could. He was always the smarter one. “You’re pretty smart if you know how to read already.”
He doesn’t answer. He wipes his nose with the heel of his right palm and lets the menu flutter back to the table.
“Did you decide what you want, Oliver?”
“Chicken.”
“Good, that’s good. I like chicken too. Today I’m in the mood for a burger though. I’m gonna get the biggest burger they’ve got.” I’m still talking in a voice that’s all high and ridiculous. I sound like a woman for fuck’s sake.
The kid’s face remains blank. It hasn’t occurred to him yet that I’m all he’s got. I hope it doesn’t occur to him for a while. The thought even depresses me. And I’m used to living with me.
The waitress takes our order and disappears. The diner looks like it was decorated by someone’s color blind grandmother. Lots of frilly shit all over the walls. In its own way it’s kind of homey though. It’s probably been here for fifty years and has a small town vibe even though Hutton is not really a small town. Not like Arcana where the ‘everybody knows your name’ garbage becomes suffocating. At least it does if your last name is the same one shared by the town’s most infamous murderer.
Oliver won’t pick up the crayons while I’m watching so I try to look at something else. There are only two other tables in use and one of them is occupied by a redhead. She’s alone and she’s practically got College Girl stamped on the pink shirt stretched across her perky tits. The sight of her reminds me that it’s been months since I had any fun. In another setting I might help myself to an empty seat at her table and find out if she has a thing for filthy talking ex cons with short attention spans.
That, of course, is out of the question right now. Or probably anytime in the foreseeable future. It’s a good thing I have a healthy imagination when it comes to beating off. That talent will be useful.
She’s shoving a greasy, dripping burger into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in a month. I think I can even hear her say, ‘Mmmmm’ as she chews a bite.
Her eyes shift my way and she covers her mouth with a napkin. Some burger juice has dripped onto her shirt. The polite thing to do would be to look away but I’ve never been a polite kind of guy. She shifts in her seat. Her eyes flicker to Oliver and then back to me. She draws a conclusion and relaxes, probably thinking that there’s no reason for her to worry about looking cute in front of a dad out to lunch with his kid. The waitress arrives with a couple of tall lemonades and then I have to forget about College Girl because Oliver pushes his glass over. Now there’s lemonade all over the table, lemonade in my lap, and lemonade on the floor.
I want to belt out a curse but I manage to bite my tongue. He’s looking at me, chin up, awaiting a reaction. The waitress is fussing over him as if he got hurt. I sigh out his name and seize every napkin in sight to try and clean up. Everything is still sticky when I finish.
By now we’ve received a pair of new drinks and this time Oliver’s comes in a plastic cup with a lid. College Girl is still here but it looks like she’s getting ready to leave. She passes her credit card to the waitress and smiles. She must be having a better day than I am. Good for her. And I’m probably a creep for wondering if she is flexible enough to throw her ankles over my shoulders but so what. She can’t read my mind.
I forget about the cute redhead and face the wrath of a five-year-old. He sips his drink through a straw and eyes me warily.
I heave a sigh. “Oliver, I know you’re pissed off.”
No, that’s not the correct way to talk to a little kid.
I start again.
“What I meant to say is that I know you’re angry. And upset. And we don’t really know each other yet. Just please try to behave, okay?”
He probably wouldn’t have agreed to the request anyway but the food arrives so he doesn’t have time to say anything.
“Just look at this yummy plate. I wish I could eat every bite of this myself.” The waitress is proud as she sets down Oliver’s food. Someone, probably her, has arranged the nuggets in a smiley face.
I figure there’s a fifty percent chance the boy will hurl the food on the floor or maybe throw it in my face but out of nowhere he smiles up at her and says, “Thank you.”
Well. Smack my ass and call me Sally. I don’t know where these good manners came from. And now I’m actually a little jealous of the beaming, round-faced waitress. I have yet to coax a smile out of the kid.
He ignores me while I watch him nibble the edge of a chicken nugget. I’m relieved he’s finally hungry enough to eat something that’s not a bagged snack food. I don’t want to jinx it by reminding him of my existence so I remain silent and dig into my own meal. It’s pretty good, the food. I’ll come here again if we stay in Hutton. And my hope is that we will stay in Hutton because I have no other plan.
“Why are we here?”
At first I’m startled that he’s asking me a question. I need to swallow the lump of food in my mouth before I can answer. He waits while I chew, his expression somber, maybe a little bit worried.
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and edit the words in my head so I don’t accidentally spit out profanity. “We’re eating a late lunch. Don’t you like your chicken? I can get you something else.”
He sighs with annoyance, a sound that belongs to someone far older. “No. I mean, why did we drive here?”
I thought I explained to him why we came to Hutton. Maybe I didn’t. I’m not used to answering to anyone else. Besides, since the first time he kicked me in Kevin Walsh’s office I’ve been spending most of my energy trying to avoid setting him off.
I ball the napkin in my hand and try to talk to him in a way that he’ll hopefully understand. “We’re here because this is where my brother lives. I don’t have any other family and I know you don’t either. I thought this might be a good place for us to live. If not, we’ll go somewhere else. Jonathan, my brother, is your uncle. Because I am your father.”
The words still sound strange, awkward. I am your father. Now I’m thinking of Star Wars. Crap. I wonder if I seem sort of like Darth Vader to him.
“Oliver.” I try to look into his eyes. “I know you really miss your mother. And I’m sorry.”
His expression shutters. He inhales sharply and picks up a fork, which he uses to stab at the chicken nuggets on his plate.
I suck at this.
But I’m hungry so I finish my burger while the kid destroys his food. At least he’s not throwing shit on the floor.
A teenage boy appears and cleans off the table where College Girl was sitting. She’s nowhere in sight. Even if I had time for women she probably wouldn’t be my type. Still, I don’t mind looking at what I can’t have.
Oliver has sufficiently wrecked his chicken nuggets and now he pouts, staring at a bunch of empty tables just so he doesn’t have to look at me. He reminds me of Jonathan right now with that lost little boy expression on his face.
In my mind my brother is still thirteen, small and skinny for his age. The last time I saw him he stole some money from our mother’s purse and gave it to me. She’d just kicked me out but I thought it was just one of her tantrums. I didn’t really believe I’d spent my last night at home, or that I wouldn’t be seeing my brother again.
The minutes tick by and I know I’m stalling. There’s nothing to be gained by wasting anymore time in here. I pay the bill and get a firm grip on Oliver’s hand.
“Let’s go meet your uncle,” I say, not adding that Jonathan has no idea that I’m within five hundred miles. He’s changed his name. He’s started a new life. I could have called him first instead of just crashing into his world like a bad dream. I found his phone number on his business web site. But there’s a better than average chance he would have told me to fuck right off if he knew I was on my way.
I don’t know what kind of man he is. I’m hoping there’s still something left of that quiet, sensitive kid who used to read comic books and rescue small animals. That kid would offer help to anyone who asked. Right now I need his help.
So does Oliver.
Jonathan was always better than I am. With all my might I’m wishing that he still is.
Because I’ve never known how to help anyone except myself.
3
Izzy
Ruby’s Bakery is a fitting follow up to Greasy June’s. It’s cheerful to think that the small city of Hutton is home to a small army of female entrepreneurs with old fashioned names.
The bakery is small and very pink and smells like the interior of a jelly donut. There are no customers and I don’t see anyone behind the counter but the sign on the door was flipped to ‘Open’. With regret I can see that I’ve arrived late in the day. There aren’t too many options left in the glass showcases beneath a long counter.
I’m examining the contents when a girl appears in a doorway that must lead to the kitchen. She’s wearing a sky blue polo shirt with the bakery name stitched into the upper right corner. And she’s gorgeous. Her shiny black hair is tied back and when she smiles at me I’m reminded of all the beautiful women who were around every corner when I vacationed with my parents in Oahu.
She steps up to the counter. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Oh, not at all. I just got here. Everything looks delicious. If ever there was a day I was in need of dessert it’s today.”
She backs up, looks down at the contents in the display cases and wrinkles her nose. “Afraid there’s not much to choose from at this point. A woman stopped by about half an hour ago and bought up most of what we had left to bring to the nurses who run the NICU ward at the hospital.”
“I’m sure they deserve it more than I do. Do you have any cupcakes lying around?”
“Sadly, no.” She pauses and then gets excited. “You know, I totally forgot. My boyfriend made a batch of lemon scones before he left. I think they’re still cooling on the rack. They are to die for.”
“Perfect. I’ll take three.”
She dashes through the doorway again and returns within twenty seconds. She sets down a basket filled with perfect pastry triangles. “Try one right now. I insist. These beauties instantly turn any bad day around.”
The Gutbuster still sits in my stomach, deciding if it wishes to digest peacefully, but I’m not one to turn down scones or kindness so I pluck one out of the basket and bite down. “You’re right. This is amazing. So amazing that I’m forgetting my manners and talking with my mouth full.”
She laughs and passes me a napkin. “Have another. I’m Lana.”
“Izzy.”
“As in Isabel?”
“Isabella. If I’m feeling pretentious I drag out every syllable when I introduce myself.”
She laughs again. “I haven’t seen you around. You go to HSU?”
“I will. I’m starting the Masters program in speech pathology. Can I have another scone? I’ll pay for them all.”
“No need. We close soon and they would have gone to waste.”
Lana likes to talk and she’s easy to talk to. In a very short period of time I learn that the bakery is owned by her boyfriend and they live together in a house not far from here. She’s also a student at HSU but she’s switched her major so many times that she still has no graduation date. She’s cool. I like her.
And in turn I tell her all about my first day in Hutton. She becomes furious on my behalf at Landlord Lou. I leave out the part about the candy dish I stole. It would sound weird. Because it is weird.
Then Lana’s face lights up because she has an idea. “Shane owns the house. It’s actually divided into two apartments. My BFF and I used to live in the second one but a few months ago Caris moved out with her boyfriend. Well, he’s her fiancé now. And he’s actually Shane’s best friend. Isn’t that amazing the way it worked out? Anyway, we planned to rent the second apartment to a couple of college girls this semester but they’ve decided to go live in the sorority house instead.”
I hope I know what’s coming. I hold my breath.
Lana is practically bouncing. “So the apartment is available if you’re interested. It’s a two bedroom but fully furnished and I’m sure we’ll have no trouble finding a girl to take the other room.”
It sounds unbelievably perfect. Except I don’t do well with the roommate thing. I’ve tried. Horror ensued. “I am definitely interested. I can give as many references as you want and I can cover the extra rent for the two bedroom.”
She’s amazed. “But I haven’t told you how much the rent is.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
She laughs. “Independently wealthy?”
“A beloved only child with excessively indulgent parents.”
“Just as good.” Lana holds her hand out. “Shake on it?”
I pump her hand. “You’ve just saved my life. I thought I would be sleeping in my car or in the gutter like a stray dog or worse, in another cheap motel. But don’t you have to ask your boyfriend?”
