Читать книгу The Show House - Dan Lopez - Страница 12

“YOUR PARENTS HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU ALL DAY,” Peter says as Steven walks through the door.

Like Peter, Steven seems to have emerged from the last three years as if from a chrysalis, newly formed. Gone are the T-shirts, basketball shorts, and flip-flops he preferred in his bachelorhood. In their place, he wears a dark blue polo shirt, tan work pants, and a heavy pair of boots. He’s taller and more compact than Thaddeus remembers. Stronger, too. When he lifts his arm to adjust the lay of a backpack across his broad shoulder, his biceps stretches the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

Steven shrugs. “There were a lot of new intakes.”

Cheryl swarms the foyer and engulfs him in a hug. Even from his spot on the couch in the family room, Thaddeus can see that the boy is anxious to escape. “Stevie,” he calls, but his words are lost in the din of Cheryl’s effusive greeting.

“We held dinner,” Peter says.

“You didn’t need to.”

“We were fine. We can take care of ourselves,” Cheryl says, brushing back Steven’s hair. That, too, is different. When they last saw each other, his hair was buzzed close to the scalp, but now loose curls cascade off his head like kudzu. Once upon a time, Thaddeus thinks, patting his own shiny scalp.

Gertie sits cross-legged on the floor playing with her blocks. She ignores Steven when he bends down to kiss the top of her head.

“She’s still awake, I see.”

Peter blows out his cheeks. “I tried.”

With a sense of resignation Steven ambles toward the family room, his weighted steps a mere shuffle across the polished wood. This man is not just his son, Thaddeus thinks. He is an adult with a family and obligations. Thaddeus sympathizes with his exhaustion. After all, not that long ago he, too, worked long hours and wouldn’t return to the house until late. The particulars of all those demanding years are gone, but he remembers the weariness. In many ways he feels it still. He wants to embrace his son and tell him that it’s always difficult at the beginning, but first he has to get up from the couch.

“Don’t worry about Gertie,” Cheryl says, flitting around Steven like a hummingbird. “She had a long nap. She’ll sleep later.” A worried frown colors her expression. “How are you? Peter said they called you in today because there was a problem with one of the kids—”

“Yes,” Peter says, “we were all surprised when you weren’t home earlier. Must’ve been some problem.”

Cheryl ignores the interruption and presses on. “Is everything all right?”

“He’s fine,” Thaddeus says. Whirling his arms, he catapults his groaning body to its feet. His movements are quick if not graceful. “Stevie,” he says, his voice strained from the effort, “have a seat. I was just getting up.” A joint pops, and his knees feel unsteady. It’s okay. No big deal. “I was keeping it warm.” Just like always the fight will be ignored. No one even remembers the details. It was about nothing.

Steven lingers near his mother as they make their way into the family room.

“I don’t want you getting mixed up in other people’s problems,” she says. “You have a family to consider.”

Her relentless attention annoys Thaddeus. The enthusiasm she ladles on the boy stirs up an uncomfortable mix of jealousy and empathy. Can’t she see that Stevie just needs some space, a small reprieve before diving into a night at home with the family?

“Stevie.” He stretches his hand past Cheryl’s head. “Give him some room, woman.”

But she bats him away with a grunt. “I’m worried about him,” she says.

“The boy just got home. Let him relax.”

Steven blinks, and Thaddeus takes it for a sign, a call for help. Emboldened, he retraces his steps and pats the couch cushion invitingly. “Here, Stevie, have a seat.”

“I just want to know if everything is all right. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t want to get into it,” Steven says. His face is gaunt and hollow around the eyes. His clothes smell of industrial-grade disinfectant.

“Can’t you see he’s exhausted?” Thaddeus says. “Let him sit down. Here, I kept it warm for you.”

Cheryl smoothes Steven’s shirt, but he slides away from her touch. “There’s always a problem, Mom; they’re the definition of a problem population. They’re homeless youth.”

“I know that, but I still worry. I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” She kisses him, and he frowns.

“We all worry,” Peter says. He’s been mostly silent since Steven came home, but now he calls Steven’s attention to Gertie. “Your father brought Gertie a doll.”

“Oh?”

On the floor, Gertie sits Talkin’ Tina among her blocks. Thaddeus chose the doll specifically because it came with four different outfits, ranging from “dinner date” to “lounging by the pool,” and half a dozen accessories to match. He didn’t know what Gertie would like, but there had to be something in there that she’d be drawn to. And if she didn’t like the outfits, she could talk to the doll. It can say thirteen phrases, among them: “I’m boy-crazy!” and “Shopping is fun!”

Boasting about the doll, Thaddeus says, “I told them only the best would do for my granddaughter.”

For the first time in three years, Steven makes eye contact with his father. The look is brief and cold, but not unkind. His thin lips stretch like putty into a rehearsed smile. “A doll?” he asks.

“Yes!” Thaddeus bowls his way into the fold, displacing Cheryl. “The most expensive one they had.”

Everything else fades away. He and Stevie are finally face-to-face.

So much about his son has changed in the last three years—and, anyway, he always took after his mother—but Thaddeus recognizes one familiar trait at last, and it’s one they have in common: the bend in the left ear. The Bloom lobe has always dragged against his son’s neck, as it has his own. Though partially obscured now under Stevie’s dense curtain of hair, the genetic heritage endures, and it gives Thaddeus hope that some elemental connection with his son remains intact. And if they have that, he thinks, there’s no reason they can’t have it all back—rebuild the relationship they used to have. Be a real family again.

The moment passes.

Steven breaks eye contact, and flicking his wrist at the doll, he says, “She already has a bunch of toys.”

“We’re family,” Thaddeus says, craning for his son’s gaze. “Don’t worry about the money. It’s nothing. My pleasure.”

“Still,” Steven insists, flashing a mercurial smile, “Peter and I, we don’t like to encourage materialism.”

“One gift in three years, Stevie—”

“Thaddeus.” Cheryl lays a hand on his forearm, and her touch immediately calms him.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, okay. I get it. My mistake. Cool as a cucumber. We’ll take it back to the store tomorrow. Your mother still has the receipt. We can get her something else. Whatever you like.”

Cheryl smiles. “Your father’s had a long day.”

“Nothing personal,” Steven says, looking at Thaddeus. There’s a cordial reciprocity in his eyes that falls far short of intimacy.

Peter crosses his arms. “Oh, it’s fine, Thaddeus. One more toy won’t matter. And Gertie seems to like it.” At the moment, Gertie has Talkin’ Tina stripped down to a pair of tan slacks worn backward, a tiara perched on her head. “Right, Steven?”

Steven worries his lip. He shrugs the backpack from his shoulder and places it in the corner. “You’re right. No big deal.” He extends a hand. “I’m sure the doll is lovely.”

“Oh,” Thaddeus says, surprised at getting a handshake so soon. “You’re welcome.”

Returning the gesture overcomes him. Stevie possesses a firm handshake. He’d forgotten that. There’s so much about him that he’s forgotten, but it’s all coming back now in fits and starts. Steven further surprises him by reaching in for a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you, Pop.”

Cheryl gasps. “Oh my...”

With a smile burning his face, Thaddeus firmly grasps his son’s upper arm, feeling the muscles tense under his grip. His eyes mist. Tomorrow will be a breeze. “Come here,” he says. Voice faltering, he drags Steven into his chest. He still has a couple of inches on his son. It’s the first time they’ve touched in more than three years and he doesn’t want to ever let go, except that at a certain point he feels Stevie squirm, so he relents and pulls back.

Thaddeus grins, playfully wags a finger. “Now don’t go getting any ideas. I know how you guys are.”

“Thaddeus!”

“It’s just a joke. He understands.” He claps Steven on the back. “Just a joke, Stevie. You understand. We can joke because we’re family.”

“For better or worse.”

“Steven!” Peter says.

“Just a joke,” Steven says, then he cracks his knuckles.

Cheryl shuttles trays of hors d’oeuvres between the kitchen and the family room while Peter plays horsey with Gertie on the floor. Words volley, some loud, some soft, all too rapidly for Thaddeus to keep up, so he sits back with a cracker and a smear of Brie, grinning blankly at everyone. Before leaving the house this morning, he stashed an emergency cache of weed in the car just in case things with Stevie went south. Part of him wants to sneak out to the driveway now to light up—not because things have gone poorly, but in celebration. Miracles happen! After three years he’s in the same room as Stevie and Gertie, and they’re all getting along. It feels like a dream because he’s dreamed it so many times. He pictured the house differently—maybe a bit smaller, humbler—and the neighborhood exceeds anything he ever imagined, but they’re doing well, and it appears safe for Gertie, and that’s the important thing.

He reaches for the crudités at the same time as Stevie, and when their fingers brush Stevie acknowledges it with a pleasant nod. He serves himself a cracker and a handful of grapes. They both lean back into their seats, and Thaddeus grins. At last, he thinks, like two friends.

“They’ll be done with the house by next week,” he says while chewing.

Steven flexes his hand, bending the fingers in unison at the second knuckle. “That’s quick.”

“Maybe we can swing by there tomorrow—you and me—and make sure everything’s kosher. Keep those guys on their toes.”

“Maybe.”

“No pressure. Think it over and let me know. Whatever you want to do.”

This newfound intimacy feels fragile and Thaddeus doesn’t want to rush things. They have all sorts of time. Besides, father-son conversations are supposed to be casual, aren’t they? Nothing set in stone.

Cheryl adds a plate of hummus to the spread. “What are you two talking about?”

“Just some guy talk,” he says.

She rolls her eyes but he can tell that she’s pleased. “Don’t ruin your appetite,” she warns, on her way back to the kitchen.

From the floor, Peter asks if Cheryl needs any help. Gertie pokes him until he neighs, and when he does she laughs and pokes him again. Each time he complies her laughter increases. She claps louder.

Thaddeus grins. “Women, huh?”

“She should be in bed,” Steven says.

“It’s no problem, really,” Peter is insisting to Cheryl. “Steven and I cook every night.”

Cheryl shakes her head. “So do I.” She runs her hands under the tap and pats them dry on a towel. “This is my way of saying thank you—for both of us.”

Thaddeus raises a nibbled cracker and winks. Crumbs rain down his shirt.

“You don’t need to thank us,” Peter says. “You guys are always welcome here.”

“Su casa es mi casa,” Thaddeus says, chuckling to himself as he closes his eyes.

All around him are the happy murmurs of a family: the splash of water in the sink, the laughter of his granddaughter, the rasp of slacks rubbing against couch cushions, and the porcelain ting of a platter as Stevie reaches for another hor d’oeuvre. The floors creak. They swish with the sound of bare feet against the wood. He opens his eyes to find Gertie propping Talkin’ Tina against the coffee table and issuing orders in a cyclone of gibberish. Blond locks tangled, her dress rumpled, the doll responds, “Math is fun!” or “The beach is hot!” (the exact line dilutes in the running stream that is his memory). Gertie topples her with a smack. Then she laughs and looks at Thaddeus with a wicked little grin.

“I should’ve never let her sleep so late this afternoon,” Peter says, dropping onto the couch beside Steven. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. “We’ll never get her down tonight, and this headache won’t quit.”

“She’ll calm down after dinner,” Steven says. He selects a grape from the tray, but then places it back. Standing, he turns toward Thaddeus. “Let me show you the yard.”

Peter massages his temples. “Your father’s already seen it. They were home alone all day.”

“I had to work,” Steven says. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

Peter raises a hand. “All right, I know.”

Steven remains standing for a moment, blinking rapidly. He bites his nails. Finally, he nods and sits back down. He nervously cracks his knuckles. “So you gave yourself the tour?”

“You have a lovely house,” Thaddeus says. “Must be costing you boys a fortune. The real estate business booming?”

“Thaddeus,” Cheryl says. “That’s private.”

“We do all right,” Steven says, his face breaking into a puerile grin. “In fact, Peter just opened a new gallery downtown. They’re selling out shows.”

“I’m just helping a friend,” Peter explains. “And there’s a tax abatement.”

“Oh,” Thaddeus says. “Nobody told me.”

Cheryl sighs. “Yes. I did.”

Steven looms over his spread knees, slowly stretching his fingers against his palm. “The gallery premiered a young video artist this summer—”

“She was a sculptor,” Peter corrects, “and a painter, not a video artist.”

“I’m sure you’ve never heard of her,” Steven continues. “Two days later she received an offer for a solo show in Brooklyn.” He flicks his tongue against his teeth and winks. The naked swagger of it dislodges something unpleasant inside Thaddeus.

“It wasn’t two days later.”

It’s as if a mask slipped to reveal something greedy and decayed. Just as quickly whatever Thaddeus glimpsed retreats, and Stevie appears perfectly amiable. But the uneasiness lingers. What if all of this is a waste, if it’s just a game Stevie is playing with him, and in the end there’ll be no reunion, no Gertie, and no family by the pool?

It happens again.

He hears Cheryl give her congratulations about the gallery and watches Peter demur, but its Steven’s unwavering gaze that holds his attention. He’s seen that same lupine eagerness before and it always precedes a fight. Only this time nothing in Steven’s expression betrays anger. The look merely suggests a cold statement of fact. You’re nothing, it seems to say. Thaddeus grows hot with the desire to shout down his son’s smugness. So what if he hasn’t been perfect? He’s sacrificed for this family, for Stevie. As he has countless times over the past three years, Thaddeus asks himself just how much longer must he suffer for something he hardly remembers.

He opens his mouth—prepared to shout—but he holds back at the last minute. Instead, he clears his throat and congratulates Peter on his success. Steven arches an eyebrow. He seems disappointed.

“I guess you boys have done pretty well for yourselves,” Thaddeus continues.

He just has to get past tonight. If he can do that then everything will be smooth sailing.

For a long time he and Steven stare at each other in silence while Cheryl and Peter carry on. Even as he leans back into the couch, Steven’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“Thanks, Pop,” he says at last. “It is wonderful.”

Cheryl returns to the family room and, leaning over, she kisses Steven on the head. “I’m so proud of you.”

Gertie wails and smacks Talkin’ Tina. Gritting her teeth and furrowing her brow, she marches toward Thaddeus, dragging the doll by its blond tresses, nearly losing her balance in the process.

“Poop,” she says, pointing at the doll.

“That’s her new favorite word,” Peter explains.

“Talk about a potty mouth,” Thaddeus says.

Stevie sighs. “That’s a very ugly word, Gertrude.”

“Poop!” This time she follows it with a smile.

“Do you want a time out?”

Knitting her brow again, she glances between the doll and her father, considering her options. Finally, she crosses her arms and plops down onto the floor in a resigned huff.

“She’s got a temper,” Thaddeus says. “Must take after our side of the family.”

Steven smirks. “You have to be firm, but reasonable.”

“Your mother was in charge of that.” He pauses and flits his eyes at Cheryl, giving her the mischievous eyebrow. “She was the disciplinarian. In fact, she still keeps me firm, if you know what I mean.”

Steven winces. “Gross.”

“Hey, man, that’s just nature.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.”

Gertie screams and tugs on Thaddeus’s pant leg to get his attention.

“Gertie, please,” Peter says. “Daddy has a headache.”

“All right. No big deal.” Thaddeus turns to Gertie, cooing, “What’s the problem, sweetie?” He leans over to grab her, but she’s skittish and retreats behind the coffee table, clutching her doll. “You don’t quite trust your old grandpa yet, do you, beautiful?”

“She’s developed some stranger anxiety in day care,” Peter explains.

Cheryl walks over to Gertie and picks her up without any problems. “You don’t need day care, do you, princess?” She tickles Gertie’s tummy and Gertie erupts in laughter. “You just tell your daddies to leave you with Grandma when they have to work. Would you like that?”

“She could go swimming,” Thaddeus adds. “It’s just a matter of turning on the heater, then she can swim even in the middle of winter. We have plenty of towels, too. No problem.”

Steven selects a cracker from the tray. “One of the kids at the shelter watched his mother drown when he was seven.” He snaps the cracker in half and eats it in two quick bites.

Peter groans. “Steven, please, not tonight. I can’t handle another one of those depressing stories.” He curls into himself on the couch and unbuttons his collar. “Let’s talk about something pleasant. Thaddeus, what do you think of the neighborhood?”

“Very impr—”

“And then last year,” Steven interrupts, “his father was run over by a car.” There’s a cruel sort of excitement nipping at the edges of his words. “You wonder how a thing like that manifests itself when they’re older.”

“Maybe he’ll end up like that serial killer,” Peter says, shooting Steven a look.

Cheryl snaps to attention. “What serial killer?”

“It’s nothing you have to worry about,” Steven says without taking his eyes off Peter.

“He targets the gay clubs,” Peter says. “It’s been in the paper.”

“Well, do the police have any leads? They must have something. Don’t these people always leave a calling card or something?”

Peter shrugs. “It’s complicated. Apparently.”

“It’s not even clear that the deaths are linked,” Steven says.

“I don’t want to hear this.” She hands Gertie to Thaddeus and returns to the kitchen. “I’ll never understand that kind of thing. My question is always: Where were the parents? You don’t just turn out that way.”

Thaddeus balances Gertie on his knees while playfully sticking his tongue out at her. He bends a thousand funny faces, and though initially reluctant to encourage his tomfoolery, she eventually claps. After that, each new face causes her to shake more and more with excitement.

“Ha!” Thaddeus says. “Will you look at that, Stevie? I think she’s warmed up to me.”

Steven glances at him and rolls his eyes. “I’m sure the killer has his reasons.”

“For God’s sake, Steven,” Peter says. “You don’t have to defend everyone.”

“But it’s true,” Steven says. “What, you think it’s accidental? You think a serial killer isn’t trying to make a statement of some kind? I mean, if it even is a serial killer.”

“Well, I don’t think about it,” Cheryl says, grabbing dinner plates from the cabinets.

“And you think that’s a healthy approach?”

“How many of those kids of yours go to the clubs anyway?”

Steven laughs. “You think it’s one of them? Maybe it should be.”

“This is so morbid,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes. “And not what I need with a pounding headache. Let’s talk about something else. Does anybody want a drink? I think we have some gin.”

“I think these kids get totally ignored,” Steven says. “Gay people in general.”

“Here we go,” Peter says, walking to the bar. “Saint Steven and his righteous indignation.”

“I always pay attention to lesbians,” Thaddeus says, but everyone ignores him.

“Oh, Steven,” Cheryl says. “You’re being extreme.”

“Maybe. But do you know all the hoops we had to jump through just to adopt Gertie? Maybe this killer has the right idea. Kill off enough gay people and society starts paying attention.” He pops a grape into his mouth. “After all, if it weren’t for the Holocaust there’d be no Israel, right? Or just look at Baltimore, or even here in Florida. People are starting to pay attention to the race problem we have in this country precisely because of public violence. It’s unfortunate but it’s true.”

“Anybody else for a g and t?” Peter asks.

“Right, that’s the solution. Just get drunk instead of engaging in a dialogue.”

“First of all, I’m not getting drunk. I’m having a drink. There’s a difference. But maybe you’re conflating the two things just like you’re conflating the actions of some psychopath with a legacy of institutionalized racism.”

“I’m not conflating anything. I’m merely offering an interpretation—”

“You’re ignoring everything we’ve accomplished! Your mother’s right. You’re just being difficult.”

Steven shrugs. “You can call it difficult if you want, but people respond to bold actions.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “So now he’s a hero.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but that’s what you’re implying.”

Steven waves away the comment.

“Nobody’s a hero,” Cheryl says with finality. “Now, come on—everybody to the dining room. Dinner’s almost ready.”