Читать книгу The Boy Most Likely To - Huntley Fitzpatrick - Страница 6
ОглавлениеI’ve been summoned to see the Nowhere Man.
He’s at his desk when I step inside the gray cave of his office, his back turned.
“Uh, Pop?”
He holds up his hand, keeps scribbling on a blue-lined pad.
Standard operating procedure.
I flick my eyes around the room: the mantel, the carpet, the bookshelves, the window; try to find a comfortable place to land.
No dice.
Ma’s fond of “cute” – teddy bears in seasonal outfits and pillows with little sayings and shit she gets on QVC. They’re everywhere. Except here, a room spliced out of John Grisham, all leather-bound, only muted light through the shades. August heat outdoors, but no hint of that allowed here. I face the rear of Pop’s neck, hunch further into the gray, granite-hard sofa, rub my eyes, sink back on my elbows.
On his desk, three pictures of Nan, my twin, at various ages – poofy red curls, missing teeth, then baring them in braces. Always worried eyes. Two more of her on the wall, straightened hair, expensive white smile, plus a framed newspaper clipping of her after delivering a speech at this summer’s Stony Bay Fourth of July thing.
No pics of me.
Were there ever? Can’t remember. In the bad old days, I always got high before a father/son office visit.
Clear my throat.
Crack my knuckles.
“Pop? You asked to see me?”
He actually startles. “Tim?”
“Yep.”
Swiveling the chair, he looks at me. His eyes, like Nan’s and my own, are gray. Match his hair. Match his office.
“So,” he says.
I wait. Try not to scope out the bottle of Macallan on the . . . what do you call it. Sidebar? Sideboard? Generally, Ma brings in the ice in the little silver bucket thing ten minutes after he gets home from work, six p.m., synched up like those weird-ass cuckoo clock people who pop out of their tiny wooden doors, dead on schedule when the clock strikes, so Pop can have the first of his two scotches ready to go.
Today must be special. It’s only three o’clock and there’s the bucket, oozing cool sweat like I am. Even when I was little I knew he’d leave the second drink half-finished. So I could slurp down the last of the scotchy ice water without him knowing while he was washing his hands before dinner. Can’t remember when I started doing that, but it was well before my balls dropped.
“Ma said you wanted to talk.”
He brushes some invisible whatever from his knee, like his attention’s already gone. “Did she say why?”
I clear my throat again. “Because I’m moving out? Planning to do that. Today.” Ten minutes ago, ideally.
His eyes return to mine. “Do you think this is the best choice for you?”
Classic Nowhere Man. Moving out was hardly my choice. His ultimatum, in fact. The only “best choice” I’ve made lately was to stop drinking. Etc.
But Pop likes to tack and turn, and no matter that this was his order, he can shove that rudder over without even looking and make me feel like shit.
“I asked you a question, Tim.”
“It’s fine. It’s a good idea.”
Pop steeples his fingers, sets his chin on them, my chin, cleft and all. “How long has it been since you got kicked out of Ellery Prep?”
“Uh. Eight months.” Early December. Hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase from Thanksgiving break.
“Since then you’ve had how many jobs?”
Maybe he doesn’t remember. I fudge it. “Um. Three.”
“Seven,” Pop corrects.
Damn.
“How many of those were you fired from?”
“I still have the one at –”
He pivots in his chair, halfway back to his desk, frowns down at his cell phone. “How many?”
“Well, I quit the senator’s office, so really only five.”
Pop twists back around, lowers the phone, studies me over his reading glasses. “I’m very clear on the fact that you left that job. You say ‘only’ like it’s something to brag about. Fired from five out of seven jobs since February. Kicked out of three schools . . . do you know that I’ve never been let go from a job in my life? Never gotten a bad performance review? A grade lower than a B? Neither has your sister.”
Right. Perfect old Nano. “My grades were always good,” I say. My eyes stray again to the Macallan. Need something to do with my hands. Rolling a joint would be good.
“Exactly,” Pop says. He jerks from the chair, nearly as angular and almost as tall as me, drops his glasses on the desk with a clatter, runs his hands quickly through his short hair, then focuses on scooping out ice and measuring scotch.
I catch a musky, iodine-y whiff of it, and man, it smells good.
“You’re not stupid, Tim. But you sure act that way.”
Yo-kay . . . he’s barely spoken to me all summer. Now he’s on my nuts? But I should try. I drag my eyes off the caramel-colored liquid in his glass and back to his face.
“Pop. Dad. I know I’m not the son you would have . . . special ordered –”
“Would you like a drink?”
He sloshes more scotch into another glass, uncharacteristically careless, sets it out on the Columbia University coaster on the side table next to the couch, slides it toward me. He tips his own glass to his lips, then places it neatly on his coaster, almost completely chugged.
Well, this is fucked up.
“Uh, look.” My throat’s so tight, my voice comes out weird – husky, then high-pitched. “I haven’t had a drink or anything like that since the end of June, so that’s, uh, fifty-nine days, but who’s counting. I’m doing my best. And I’ll –”
Pop has steepled his hands and is scrutinizing the fish tank against the wall.
I’m boring him.
“And I’ll keep doin’ it . . .” I trail off.
There’s a long pause. During which I have no idea what he’s thinking. Only that my best friend is on his way over, and my Jetta in the driveway is seeming more and more like a getaway car.
“Four months,” Pop says, in this, like, flat voice, like he’s reading it off a piece of paper. Since he’s turned back to look down at his desk, it’s possible.
“Um . . . yes . . . What?”
“I’m giving you four months from today to pull your life together. You’ll be eighteen in December. A man. After that, unless I see you acting like one – in every way – I’m cutting off your allowance, I’ll no longer pay your health and car insurance, and I’ll transfer your college fund into your sister’s.”
Not as though there was ever a welcome mat under me, but whatever the fuck was there has been yanked out and I’m slammed down hard on my ass.
Wait . . . what?
A man by December. Like, poof, snap, shazam. Like there’s some expiration date on . . . where I am now.
“But –” I start.
He checks his Seiko, hitting a button, maybe starting the countdown. “Today is August twenty-fourth. That gives you until just before Christmas.”
“But –”
He holds up his hand, like he’s slapping the off button on my words. It’s ultimatum number two or nothing.
No clue what to say anyway, but it doesn’t matter, because the conversation is over.
We’re done here.
Unfold my legs, yank myself to my feet, and I head for the door on autopilot.
Can’t get out of the room fast enough.
For either of us, apparently.
Ho, ho, ho to you too, Pop.
