them like dog biscuits. And then we go out, check our stringers, there’s nothing there but the heads.”
“You complain?”
Bob smiled at me, like I was a poor, simple soul. “You try talking to those people.”
Sooner or later, I felt, I was going to have to.
Before Bob came over with his fish story, I went back to Dad’s cabin and found him leaning up against the kitchen counter, slipping a key off one of four nails that had been driven into the wall. He tossed it to me, and, not being particularly sports-inclined, I panicked as it flew through the air toward me. You don’t want to miss a toss from your father. Somehow, I got it, and he said, “That’s for cabin three. You can use it long as you want.”
“Okay. But I don’t mind camping out here on the couch, in case you get a chance to rent it. Besides, you could probably use the help around here, like grabbing you the TV remote.”
“No, it’s okay. You take it. You should have some privacy. There’s some sheets and blankets in the closet in my bedroom you can use.”
Fine, I thought.
“Tomorrow, I’ll show you what needs to be done around here. Couple days, I should be back to normal.”
“I can take as much time as you need,” I said, although I knew I couldn’t stay away from work that long. With only a year in at
The Metropolitan
, I didn’t have much rank and hadn’t earned many favors. “I talked to Sarah, she said she’ll clear it for me with the other editors.”
“How’s she doing? You still making her life hell?”
“Like father like son,” I said.
The words were out of my mouth before I could get them back. They just slipped out. You could almost see them hanging in the room. I wished there were some way to reel them back in, stuff them back into my big, fat mouth.
Dad looked at me, and I was expecting him to give me a blast, but instead, he turned his back to me and washed his hands in the sink.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, studying his hands as though getting them clean was the most important thing he’d ever had to do.
“Really, I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot. That’s not how I feel.”
Dad grabbed a towel, wiped his hands off. “Sure it is,” he said. “You’ve always thought I was hard on your mother. I know that.”
“No, no, that’s not true. When I was little, yeah, you could be a bit tough on her, on all of us, but later on, when we got older, I don’t know.”
“I know you blame me for that time…”
I paused. “What? You mean when she went away? When I was twelve?”
Dad turned away, pivoting on one foot so as not to put weight on his bad ankle, and hung the towel back on the rack on the oven door. He said nothing.
I said, “She was gone for, what was it, six months?” Still no response from Dad. “I remember she phoned all the time, to talk to me and Cindy, but I never saw her once for, like, half a year. All you’d tell us was that Mom needed some time.”
“I don’t want to get into this now,” Dad said. He turned, and started to slip when he lost his balance trying to keep his weight off his injured ankle. I ran forward, but Dad caught himself before I got there. I handed him his crutches and he made his way over to the table.
“Pass me those buns,” he said. “I’ll butter them.”
Not long after that, Betty and Hank Wrigley showed up. He’d brought some booze, and she had a bowl of potato salad covered with Saran. Then Bob arrived, telling his lies about what happened to his fish, and soon after that, Leonard Colebert, the diaper magnate, came through the door that led to the porch, two pie boxes tied with string hanging from his index finger. He must have done a fast pastry run into Braynor.
It was a party.
We cooked and ate and drank, and drank some more. At one point, I was sitting on the porch, Colebert in a chair to my left and Bob on my right. Colebert, it seemed, had one topic he liked to talk about
“You complain?”
Bob smiled at me, like I was a poor, simple soul. “You try talking to those people.”
Sooner or later, I felt, I was going to have to.
Before Bob came over with his fish story, I went back to Dad’s cabin and found him leaning up against the kitchen counter, slipping a key off one of four nails that had been driven into the wall. He tossed it to me, and, not being particularly sports-inclined, I panicked as it flew through the air toward me. You don’t want to miss a toss from your father. Somehow, I got it, and he said, “That’s for cabin three. You can use it long as you want.”
“Okay. But I don’t mind camping out here on the couch, in case you get a chance to rent it. Besides, you could probably use the help around here, like grabbing you the TV remote.”
“No, it’s okay. You take it. You should have some privacy. There’s some sheets and blankets in the closet in my bedroom you can use.”
Fine, I thought.
“Tomorrow, I’ll show you what needs to be done around here. Couple days, I should be back to normal.”
“I can take as much time as you need,” I said, although I knew I couldn’t stay away from work that long. With only a year in at
The Metropolitan
, I didn’t have much rank and hadn’t earned many favors. “I talked to Sarah, she said she’ll clear it for me with the other editors.”
“How’s she doing? You still making her life hell?”
“Like father like son,” I said.
The words were out of my mouth before I could get them back. They just slipped out. You could almost see them hanging in the room. I wished there were some way to reel them back in, stuff them back into my big, fat mouth.
Dad looked at me, and I was expecting him to give me a blast, but instead, he turned his back to me and washed his hands in the sink.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, studying his hands as though getting them clean was the most important thing he’d ever had to do.
“Really, I’m sorry. That was a cheap shot. That’s not how I feel.”
Dad grabbed a towel, wiped his hands off. “Sure it is,” he said. “You’ve always thought I was hard on your mother. I know that.”
“No, no, that’s not true. When I was little, yeah, you could be a bit tough on her, on all of us, but later on, when we got older, I don’t know.”
“I know you blame me for that time…”
I paused. “What? You mean when she went away? When I was twelve?”
Dad turned away, pivoting on one foot so as not to put weight on his bad ankle, and hung the towel back on the rack on the oven door. He said nothing.
I said, “She was gone for, what was it, six months?” Still no response from Dad. “I remember she phoned all the time, to talk to me and Cindy, but I never saw her once for, like, half a year. All you’d tell us was that Mom needed some time.”
“I don’t want to get into this now,” Dad said. He turned, and started to slip when he lost his balance trying to keep his weight off his injured ankle. I ran forward, but Dad caught himself before I got there. I handed him his crutches and he made his way over to the table.
“Pass me those buns,” he said. “I’ll butter them.”
Not long after that, Betty and Hank Wrigley showed up. He’d brought some booze, and she had a bowl of potato salad covered with Saran. Then Bob arrived, telling his lies about what happened to his fish, and soon after that, Leonard Colebert, the diaper magnate, came through the door that led to the porch, two pie boxes tied with string hanging from his index finger. He must have done a fast pastry run into Braynor.
It was a party.
We cooked and ate and drank, and drank some more. At one point, I was sitting on the porch, Colebert in a chair to my left and Bob on my right. Colebert, it seemed, had one topic he liked to talk about
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