The Sweetheart Deal (20 page)

C
hris arrived home later than usual. I'd heard a story about conflict resolution on NPR—useful between coworkers, and employees and their bosses—how walking in the same direction facilitated solutions. Something about the physical motion of sharing the same simple goal of their feet moving forward lent itself to a mental agreement of the minds, or at least contributed to compromise. I had no idea if it worked with parents and children—I was no one's parent—or adults and teenagers.

Chris was in his room, and I went up and knocked on the door. I knocked again, louder, when there was no answer, and then a third time.

Chris opened the door, one earbud in, one out. “What.” His expression was flat.

“How about we take a walk,” I said.

“I'm not really interested,” said Chris.

“Yeah, I figured,” I said. “But there's something we need to talk about.”

“So talk here,” Chris said. He fingered the dangling earbud. “We don't need to walk.”

“I need to walk,” I said. “I'd consider it a favor.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he said. “I'll be down in a minute.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll wait.”

After ten minutes, Chris came down. “Let's go,” he said.

I followed him out to the sidewalk and we started walking.

“I have homework,” said Chris.

“I know you do,” I said.

We walked a block in silence while I mentally rehearsed. I wondered how many times walking in the same direction hadn't solved the conflicts people had hoped it would. How the expectation of something so basic might instead deliver crushing disappointment.

“I need to explain something,” I said. “I'm just going to say it and you tell me if I'm wrong.”

Chris shrugged.

“I think,” I said, “on account of a feeling I got this morning, that you know about a part of my relationship with your mom that's private, and I'm sorry you're aware of it. It's not something you should have to think or worry about. It's between us.”

“You mean sex,” Chris said.

I rubbed my face and crossed my arms. “If it helps, you should know this makes me very uncomfortable.”

“Like I'm having the time of my life.” Chris glared at me. “You're an asshole,” he said. “I'm going home.”

“There's more to it,” I said. “Keep walking with me. There's something I need you to know, and it's even more uncomfortable, as unlikely as that seems. Chris, please.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “God. What.”

“You're right,” I said. “You're right to feel the way you do. Your mom and I have been friends for a long time. Sometimes that changes into something else.”

“My dad is dead,” Chris said. “You were his best friend.
Something
shouldn't change between your best friend's wife and you because he's dead. Strictly off-limits.”

“I know how you feel,” I said.

“No, you fucking don't know,” said Chris. “You don't know anything. You think you do, but you don't know anything about me.”

With his anger tapped so deep, he resembled Leo even more. He looked just like his father had when he was angry, the same unwavering carriage and attitude and rock-hard fury.
Getting your Irish on,
we used to call it. His was a rage you were protected by if you had it on your side, and God help you if you were on the wrong side of it. The resemblance was so uncanny, I wanted to stop having this terrible talk and just grab Chris in my arms and not let go.

“You're right,” I said. With each step this walk was proving to be nothing but a bad idea. “Let's sit.” I stopped and perched on the curb mid-block.

“I thought you wanted to walk so bad,” Chris said.

“I changed my mind,” I said. “I'd really like you to sit.”

“Jesus,” said Chris. He sat.

We both looked across the street and watched a woman unloading groceries from her car.

“When you were a baby,” I said, “Brian too, I came out here for a visit. It was New Year's, Y2K. It was a long time ago. I wanted to spend that time with your parents and you guys. We had a really nice visit. Your mom was pregnant with Andrew.”

“So what. Spare me your story,” Chris said. He picked at the pine needles in the gutter. “You obviously haven't been acting like a guy who remembers my dad being alive. Married to my mom. Her husband.”

I was getting pissed. “Why don't you let me finish.” Chris reminded me of the entitled students who were ready to argue over a grade until the end of time.

Chris looked at me, wounded and insulted. “Nice tone,” he said. “I'm not the one on the hook here. Why don't you go home. We don't need you.”

I ignored him. “When I was here, during that visit, on New Year's Eve, Leo and I—your dad and I—we drank a bunch, as we sometimes did when we celebrated—and you know what? I loved your dad. He was like my brother.” This was not what I was planning to say; the words just came out.

Chris abandoned the pine needles in the gutter and stared at me.

I picked up a stone from the street and rubbed it. I had to get this over with. “That night, on New Year's Eve, your dad asked me to promise to marry your mom if he died. Because he was a firefighter. He got very sentimental about our friendship, and he wrote it up and he made me sign it. It was a stupid thing. We were acting your age, younger.”

“Well, whatever it was, he didn't mean it,” said Chris. “It
was
stupid.” For a second we were on the same side. In agreement, and we weren't even walking.

“You're telling me,” I said. “Your dad was like that, though. Like with the fire drills. He didn't like the unexpected. I don't know anyone who does. Although it was childish, he did it, and I signed it. And I forgot about it. That has nothing to do with your mom and me, but it's been bothering me. It's been bothering me a lot. Because it was a dumb thing and it was a joke. But he died.”

“Yeah,” said Chris.

“He shouldn't have,” I said. “I'd give anything to have him here.”

“If he was here, he would kick your ass,” said Chris. “So what. He got drunk on New Year's Eve. You think my dad just told you it was okay to help yourself to his wife? Did he say that in the note? Say you had his permission to fuck my mother?”

I thought we had been making progress, but it felt like we were starting all over again.

“Chris, that's enough,” I said.
Goddamn it
,
I've given you unlimited rope and you just hung yourself
. “I'm not talking to you anymore about your mom and me, and I don't ever want to hear you talk about her like that again. We're done. You know what you know and I'm sorry. You're pissed. Be pissed.

“They're two different things,” I said. “What your dad asked me has nothing to do with what happened between your mom and me, and I'm having a lot of trouble with all of it. I just wanted to be honest with you. I thought you deserved that much from me. As pleasant as this has been for both of us. And really, it's none of your business. Sorry, but that's the fact of the matter.”

“But aren't you such a player? Garrett, the legendary ladies' man.” He was holding nothing back. “What did you say to me that day, that you're not a guy who's built to settle down? So you have no business. You can't treat my mom like all the hags you've brainwashed. She's nothing like them.”

“You're right,” I said. “She's not. This is different.”

“Like you would know,” he said. “Like I'm supposed to believe anything you say after that. Yeah, you're a solid bet.”

We sat quietly again and I waited. I waited for it to be over for both of us.

“Do you have it?” Chris said.

“Have what?” I said.

“Do you have the paper he made you sign, or did you throw it away?”

My eyes stung. “I have it.”

“Do you have it with you?” said Chris.

My admission embarrassed me and I felt as if I were the kid here, nodding to answer Chris's hard question.

“I want it,” Chris said. “I want you to give it to me.”

I stood up. “No, Chris. I won't. I'm not going to do that.” After Leo's funeral I had tucked the paper back into a balled pair of athletic socks that I'd buried beneath everything else in the guest room's dresser drawer.

“Can I see it, at least? Jesus,” said Chris. He stood too. “I've got homework.”

“If it's going to make any difference,” I said, “I'll show it to you when we get home.” We stood up and reversed our route.
We're walking in the same direction
,
I thought,
but we should have gone around the block. We're going backwards
.

“It's not your home,” said Chris.

I
wished I'd gone home with Joe. Or gone anywhere else so I didn't have to talk to Garrett, but it would only have delayed the inevitable. I wasn't surprised Garrett came to me the first chance he got after the awkwardness of this morning. I wasn't sorry I'd said something to Meredith, but I hoped she would keep her mouth shut like she said she would. I still thought the advice she had given me was a far cry from how she'd feel in my situation. But I knew she could only imagine, and I hoped her imagination was as close as she ever got to what I was going through.

After Garrett said all those things I hadn't wanted to hear, I was ashamed and disgusted again about what I'd thought about Colleen Maguire, but at least her stuff was gone. I wanted Garrett to leave. We would be fine without him.

A few minutes after we got back from that terrible walk, he knocked on my door and came in and closed it behind him. He looked mad—not furious, but like he was tired of my shit. Well, I was tired of his shit too, the shit he'd done with my mom. And I wasn't even sure I believed him about the letter.

“This is it,” he said. He held it out, and when I reached to take it, his fingers didn't let go. Like I was going to steal it right out from under him.

“Well, can I see it?” I said. I wanted him to let go.

“Yeah,” he said, “take it.”

I looked at it and it was my dad's writing after all, its sloppiness proof that he'd been drinking. What looked like Garrett's signature was just as bad.

“Did you sign this, here?” I pointed.

“Yeah, that's mine.” Now he looked tired and not mad. “It was a very dark night. I could hardly see. We had a crappy flashlight.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “My dad never had a crappy flashlight.”

“Okay,” he said. “You've seen it.” He held his hand out and I gave him back the paper and he left.

After dinner my mom came into my room while I was still doing homework.

“Hey.” She looked uncomfortable. I knew what was coming.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

“You and Garrett talked this afternoon?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “and I don't want to talk about it with you. I'm sorry, but I don't.”

“Oh, okay.” Now she looked hurt. “I just want you to know that what Garrett and I did was a mistake and I'm sorry. This is grownup stuff. I don't want you to have to deal with this kind of stuff before it's time. Especially now.”

Whether it was the truth or not, she was telling me what I wanted to hear. “Mom,” I said. “I really don't want to talk, really. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. You can do what you want. Your business is your business, but can we please not talk about it anymore?”

“Okay,” she said. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

I felt like a cat toying with a terrified mouse, and I felt bad thinking about my mom that way, I really did, but it wasn't my fault she was in this situation.

“I don't know why we need a stupid addition anyway.” I was mad at everybody. “Why didn't Dad build one a long time ago when we were little kids? He waited long enough. None of us is hardly ever home anymore. We're never going to use it.”

My mom still looked caught, trying to find solid footing. “You seemed pretty psyched about it when he started. It'll be a place for you to hang out with your friends like you do at other people's houses. Dad wanted that for you. He started it when he could, Chris. If he could have done it sooner, he would have.” She was trying to make it up for him since he wasn't here to explain himself, but if my dad
had
been here, I wouldn't have been bitching. I just wanted Garrett to go.

“I don't know if I'd say
psyched,
” I said. “Maybe Brian and Andrew were. I've never cared either way.”

“Oh,” she said. She had given up any fight. “Okay.”

“I want to ask you something, though,” I said.

“Of course, anything.” Now she looked hopeful, optimistic. I was going to disappoint her.

“Don't you miss Dad?”

Her mouth got tight and small and her chin and forehead wrinkled in an ugly way. “Oh, Chris,” she said. “Every minute of every day.”

I didn't want her to cry and I could tell she didn't want to either, but I wasn't sorry to see how close she was, fighting hard to keep it from happening. If I'd wanted to, I could have made her cry.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too. Sorry.”

She smoothed her hands over her face to wipe away her expression, and it only worked a little.

In a rush she kissed the top of my head and plucked at the neck of the Portland Fire & Rescue shirt I was wearing. “I'm washing this tomorrow,” she said, her voice thick. “It needs it, and I'll have it back to you tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. Now I really wanted her to go.

“Okay, good night,” she said. “You know I love you, more than the world.”

“I know,” I said.

She left and I thanked God all that was over, with both of them, and I knew Garrett thought he'd taken care of business with me, nice and neat. And I knew my mom thought telling me she made a mistake solved everything too, but I didn't care. It didn't matter what they said or what they thought they'd done. I didn't want to think about them. I just didn't want to hear Garrett leaving my parents' bedroom early in the morning ever again. None of that mattered because I'd already decided that afternoon, if Garrett wasn't going to give me that paper, I was going to find it myself and take it.