The Practical Navigator by Stephen Metcalfe Page A

“I’d have made things worse.”
    â€œYou’re so sure of that.”
    â€œIt’s what I tell myself.”
    â€œYou don’t want to know what I tell myself.”
    â€œI can guess.” And she can. Derelict mom. Prodigal wife returned.
    â€œI do want to see him, Michael.”
    â€œI’m not sure how we’re going to handle that.”
    â€œNo rush.”
    He looks at her. For the very first time, really looks at her. His eyes are question marks and she realizes, despite his anger, he is concerned for her. Not what she expected or even knew she wanted.
    â€œI’m tired, Michael. I need to be home for a while. I won’t bother you, I promise. I’ll wait for you to tell me what to do.”
    Michael nods. A moment passes and he puts the truck in gear. He does a U-turn across the lane and heads back up the hill.
    *   *   *
    â€œCan I call you?” she says.
    Neither of them have spoken on the ride back to the house and now, as she’s about to get out of the truck, Anita feels she has to.
    â€œYour mother has my cell.”
    â€œAll right.” She hesitates. She has to say it. “It’s good to see you, Michael. I’ve missed you.” He stares straight ahead, not saying a word.
    What did you expect?
    She opens the door and is halfway out when she hears his voice.
    â€œAnita.”
    She turns back. Michael is still looking straight ahead. Anywhere but at her.
    â€œYou find what you were looking for?”
    â€œNot even close,” says Anita, trying and failing to make it a joke. Michael nods. Elsewhere. A place where you don’t really care about answers.
    Anita closes the door of the truck. She stands, watching him drive away, taking her time before turning and going in the house. She has to decide if she’ll give her mother an argument or the silent treatment. Arguing feels better but silence is the more effective means of punishment. Decisions, decisions. One should be as certain about anything as her mother is about everything.

 
    12
    â€œWell, I think it’s insane,” says Penelope Hodge.
    It’s been hamburgers tonight. Overcooked, bloodless, gray hamburgers, which is how Penelope likes them, and after a hell of a lousy day, Michael isn’t sure he has the patience to deal with his mother anymore. Time to just finish washing the dishes and get out of here.
    â€œYou’d be mad to let her see him.”
    Penelope hates doing dishes and invariably finds another chore far enough away from the sink to keep her hands dry but not so far she can’t continue her end of what she feels to be a meaningful conversation. Her preferred task this evening seems to be refolding already folded dishtowels and replacing them in a different drawer.
    â€œYou want to keep your voice down?” says Michael.
    â€œHe’s not listening.”
    Jamie is in the living room, having returned to his usual place on the floor in front of the TV. This evening it’s been Bob the Builder —a bobble-headed construction worker and his anthropomorphic equipment. Even with their inane chatter, Michael wishes he had heavy equipment that did construction work all by themselves.
    â€œDon’t kid yourself. He’s always listening.”
    *   *   *
    After he drops Anita off at the Beacham house, Michael goes to Bev Mo, buys a six-pack and takes it down to the parking lot overlooking Tourmaline Beach. Alcohol is prohibited on San Diego beaches but the hell with it, let someone try and fine him. Michael pulls into a vacant spot, gets out, and six-pack in hand, walks down to the rail. He cracks a beer and drains half of it in one swallow. He closes his eyes and lets it settle. Why can’t things ever be easy? Just when you think you might be heading in the right direction you find out there isn’t one. You’re back to the starting line, back to square one. He drinks again, sipping