The Sweetheart Deal (10 page)

T
hey screwed up my pizza order so I had to wait. I had no idea what to do about Frank and Gannon, and I wondered what Leo would do. Andrew's behavior and maybe Gannon's, too—I had no way of knowing—I was sure was because Leo was gone, but if Leo were still alive and our son was being bullied, what would he do? He wouldn't take any shit from another parent, I knew that. I wasn't either, but I couldn't help but despair that coming from a woman, it wasn't the same.

They redid my order and threw in extra breadsticks, and I arrived home a half hour later than I should have. When I got close to the house, from a block away I saw the boys and Garrett playing basketball, two on two, Garrett and Andrew against the older boys. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the street and watched them. It had been a long time since Christopher and Brian had played with each other, or with Andrew, but looking at the four of them, it seemed like they played every day. Andrew was fierce guarding Christopher, funny because Chris was so much taller. He was taller than me now. Andrew, scrapping with everything he had, stole the ball from Chris, passed it to Garrett, who shot it in and high-fived Andrew. He looked so different from the boy sitting on the bench at school earlier today.

Chris and Brian had gone to the Dougy Center the one time without complaint, to appease me, but Andrew had been three times so far. His continuing to go had seemed like a favor to me, so I didn't touch it. All he'd said when I asked if he wanted to go back again was “Yeah. When I'm there I don't feel like I have to be ready for anything, the way I do all the time everywhere else.” After that I drove us there each time without comment, wondering if it would be his last. I had gone too and joined other grieving spouses, most of them widows—some with four and five children, some whose husbands had left no life insurance—and their challenges, greater than my own, made me feel like I had no right to be there. But it was a serene and healing place, and everyone there was so tender and compassionate, that every time Andrew and I left, I was glad I'd gone. I remembered Leo working when they'd had the big fire there. When he finally came home, so depleted, the boys welcomed him, waving the newspaper, asking their questions, and he had been as gentle and patient as he could, but he refused to look at the paper or follow the news. He didn't need to.

The pizza was getting cold, but still I sat. I watched Brian and Chris pass the ball back and forth, Garrett and Andrew countering with an aggressive defense, but Brian made the shot and he and Chris did a goofy victory shimmy. Maybe they didn't even need me. Maybe they just needed to play basketball with Garrett until their mourning eased, and by then I would know what to do. Because every day, every morning I woke up, even when I thought I did, I still wasn't sure.

T
he next afternoon I got to school before dismissal and shot some baskets by myself until the bell rang. I took the ball and waited by the front door. The eighth-graders came out and I saw Brian walking with a group of boys. When he looked up I raised my hand and pointed to the courts and he nodded. The sixth-graders flooded out and I looked for Andrew. He ran away from the swarm of kids and over to me.

“Hey, Garrett,” he said. He didn't look happy exactly, but not unhappy either.

“You want to get some guys to play?”

He looked around. “Nah,” he said. “Let's start shooting and see who comes over.”

We walked past mothers pushing strollers and holding toddlers' hands, distributing Cheerios, fathers talking and texting on their phones, parents visiting with each other. It reminded me of Boston, and for the first time since I'd been here, I felt a pang, missing the swirling clusters of kids studying on the grass, rushing to and from class, couples holding hands, other professors on their way to office hours, meetings, their own classes.

“How was the day?” I said.

“Okay,” he shrugged. “Yours?”

“Same,” I said. “I had to save some energy for this. I'm old.”

We got to the courts and passed the ball back and forth and took some shots. After a few minutes, Brian came over with Michael and joined us. We played two on two until two other sixth-graders joined us, Bobby and Marcus, with Marcus's dad, Luke, who seemed decent. When another one of Brian's friends, Kyle, asked if he could play, we were even again. When the ball got away from us and Brian went after it, Andrew came up to me.

“Garrett,” he whispered. “There's Gannon—don't look, he's over there by the trash can.”

Brian threw the ball back in, and after we started up again, I looked over. He was a big kid, with hair that hung down past his collar. He stood there alone, staring at our group. When I looked back ten minutes later, he was gone.

We kept playing until almost four, when nobody was left but us, the boys flushed and sweaty.

Luke shook my hand. “Nice meeting you, Garrett. Maybe see you back here again?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “I'll be around. Nice meeting you, too.”

Brian, Andrew, and I got back to the house and shot some more in the street before dinner. Chris came out and joined us, and when Audrey called us in we all got to the table so fast, you'd think we hadn't eaten in weeks.

C
hris and Andrew and I had all heard what happened between Mom and Gannon Keegan's dad and Garrett, and I was upset.

Even though Andrew and I had lunch and recess at the same time, we both hung out with our own friends, and I had no idea Gannon was making trouble for Andrew, because if I had, I would have done something about it before it got to this point. I wasn't much of a fighter, so people had no idea, but when it came to my brothers, or my mom, you didn't fuck with me, because I'd kick your ass.

That night, after Gannon's dad left, I told my mom I would handle it at school, that Andrew had nothing to worry about, and Gannon would be sorry.

“Brian,” she said. “I know you would, but please don't. I don't want you both in trouble because of a kid like Gannon. We're above that and he's not worth it.”

I laughed. “Mom, I'm not going to get in trouble. I'm not going to touch him. I won't have to.”

“No, Brian, please. Don't,” she said. And the way she looked at me, I knew I'd be in a bad spot with her if I did anything.

It bothered me that even if I hadn't seen what was going on at school, Andrew never said anything to me. He had to know that if he had, I would've helped. He was always, really, the nicest one of all of us—Chris and I both agreed on that—but he'd gotten so mean since the accident, so nasty, and you could see his temper brewing all the time, about everything. Before Dad died, Andrew would have told me—although I probably wouldn't have had to handle it then—if Gannon, or anyone else, was giving him trouble. Before, he always told me everything that was going on with him. Sometimes I pretended I was listening because he'd talk on and on with no end in sight. And he always told me whatever I was drawing was good, even if what did he know?

I hardly ever liked my drawings, because it seemed like they never turned out the way I wanted them to. But people told me all the time,
I could never draw like that, you're so talented.
I tried to remember to say thanks every time, but because the drawings didn't look as good as I'd hoped, thanking people felt fake. I hadn't always said thanks—I used to shrug and say things like
It's not
that
good,
or,
It could be a lot better
. But last spring, when I was like that with my dad about a series in the school art show, we ended up having this big talk.

The show was the highlight of the year for the art teacher, Mrs. Butler, and for all the parents, too. The parish hall was packed with families gushing over all their kids' artwork, especially the kindergartners'. My parents were no exception. They went crazy over the fifth-graders' mosaic self-portraits, and I had to admit, Andrew's was pretty good and he was happy with himself, you could tell. I thought,
Good for him.

Mrs. Butler had assigned the seventh grade the theme “Portland: Place or Thing,” which we had to do in graphite. Some kids picked bridges or public buildings or a statues. A bunch drew their houses.

I did these three sketches—six, really—two sets each of three of some of Portland's oldest firehouses that were museums now. For each pair, the first sketch was of the station back in the old days, and the second was its partner today, restored and decorated, without the gritty spirit they used to have. Now they were fancy places people took tours of or rented for parties.

When my parents saw them, they went on and on, but it put me in a bad mood and I wanted them to stop with all their amazement. Like they didn't see my drawings all the time. Since I kept being sulky and quiet, my mom finally quit all the hoopla and patted my back. But my dad kept standing there next to me at the art show, squeezing my shoulder.

“My God, Brian,” he said, “I don't even know what to say. These are really incredible. I hope you're proud of this. It's obvious you worked hard. I'll bet Mrs. Butler was impressed.”

I looked at my shoes. “Yeah, she's ‘tickled,'” I said. “That's what she told me.” I'd been embarrassed when she'd said that, like,
Come on, you can't pick another word?
“But I think if I'd had more time, they'd be better.”

My dad nodded. “Better?” he said. He looked at them some more. “You're going to get to bring these home?”

“Yeah,” I said. “After the show.”

“I want to frame them. What do you think?” he said. “Think of a good place where we can hang them. You ready to go? Let's get out of here.”

When we got home, he sat down in the living room and asked me to sit too. I thought he was mad.

“You know I have a naturally high opinion of everything you do,” he said. He smiled. “Good for balancing things out when you screw up.”

“I know,” I said.

“But listen, I've got to tell you something,” he said. “You're going to have to get used to people being impressed with your art even though everything you do isn't going to be a masterpiece. And I get it,
you
think everything you draw is never a masterpiece.”

I nodded. We were all always polite—since we were little kids our parents had made us be—but when people made a big deal with their compliments, it was uncomfortable, and it was harder to be polite, I don't know why.

“So, it's okay if you think that, and maybe that will change too,” my dad said. “Not so you're an arrogant jerk or anything, but privately prouder, and confident, even if you're confident you could make it better, or the next one better.”

I nodded again. I wasn't sure where all this was going. I wanted him to stop talking.

“But if you're going to show people your work,” he said, “you're going to have to learn to accept their praise graciously. Do you know what I mean?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Think of it this way,” he said. “Someone really likes a book or a movie and maybe you didn't. You could get into a discussion about your different opinions. But you'd never tell someone what they liked was unlikable, right? Because that's an insult to their opinion, which they're entitled to. Even if you disagree.”

He waited and looked at me.

“So no matter what you think of your work, you can't insult people's opinions by implying what they like is crap,” he said. “Before too long you and your brothers are going to find out there are plenty of people who love to tear down—whatever it is—who someone is, who someone isn't, what they think, what they create. You've got to take the thanks when it comes, and be gracious like you've always been, even if it bothers you.”

“It feels weird, though. Like ‘Thanks' is all, ‘Yeah, I'm really good at drawing,'” I said.

He put his hands on my leg and pressed down a little.

“But they don't hear that,” he said. “Is that what you hear when someone says thanks? When Mom runs a good race and we tell her she was great and we're proud and she thanks us, do you think she's saying ‘Yeah, I'm all that'?”

I shook my head.

“Right,” he said. “She's happy that we recognized how hard she worked and what she accomplished. I'm telling you, take those compliments while you can.”

The talk went on longer than I wanted it to, but it was cool. And after that whenever I showed him a drawing, he'd always like
something
about it, even if he wasn't crazy about the whole thing, though sometimes he was. So I'd thank him, and he'd say, “You're welcome, Brian.” And I tried to get better thanking other people too. But I was still glad I could always go back and change the parts that weren't perfect, and maybe never would be, but sooner or later I could make better.

I
n early March, Kevin Gallagher sent me an email, which he also sent to about five thousand other people. In it, he wrote that the men from Twenty-Five had gotten the owners of Kells to agree to host a fundraiser for Leo—the night of St. Patrick's Day, the culmination of their annual three-day St. Patrick's Irish Festival. For years, since the boys were babies, we'd gone to Kells at least once a month for brunch, and Leo had been a dedicated regular at the bar—he and Kevin both had. Just like the Pittock, Kells offered a generous exception, and Kevin invited the email recipients to forward the invitation to anyone else we wanted to include.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. For years, the fire department brotherhood had been like another wife I'd had to share Leo with—for the camping weekends, the late nights out drinking, the marathon golf days—a presence I had to check with before I knew if he would be available to spend time with his family. That presence hadn't died with him; she was the other widow, still with her own demands.

“Garrett, will you come look at this?” I said. “This is unbelievable.”

“What?” he said.

“This email—you have to come here and see it.”

He looked over my shoulder at Kevin's email.

“Wow,” he said. “That's quite a thing.”

“I know,” I said. “They're completely out of line. No one asked me. I'm not a charity.”

“What? No, Audrey, listen.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Turn around. Look at me for a minute.”

I closed the computer. “What?” I said. “You don't think this is completely inappropriate? I don't want this. No one cared to think about what I want.”

He squatted in front of me. “They're doing this for them. They're doing what they can,” he said. “That's what this is about. What else can they do? If they raise a bunch of money and want to give it to you, you'll deal with that then. There's nothing but goodwill behind what they're doing. As much as it might be nothing you want.”

I started to cry. “I can't have what I want. I want him back. I want a fundraiser that's going to raise enough money to bring him back.”

“I know,” he said. “You don't know how many times I've wished God could be bought.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“Write back to Kevin,” he said. “Thank him and tell him you're grateful and overwhelmed by his gesture, in the lovely way you always do. That's all you have to do today. You'll deal with St. Patrick's when it gets here. Right?”

“Okay,” I said. “I guess you're right.”

“Okay,” he said. “I have to run to Lowe's. You want me to wait? I will if you want to go.”

I didn't want to go to Lowe's, but I didn't feel like staying in the house by myself. “Sure, I'll go,” I said. “Let me send this first.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Garrett said. “No hurry. We'll go when you're ready.”

“I miss him,” I said.

“So do I,” said Garrett.