After telling me I’d better give myself time to go buy a suit, and to get a lesson from Max on which fork to use when, William says he doesn’t want to stand in the way of my fine dining experience and, sure, I can leave at five.
Finished with my sandwich and fruit, I take the last swallow of sparkling water and start back to the spot I was sanding.
“Wait a sec,” William says, motioning for me to sit back down. “I need to talk to you.”
We sit in silence long enough to get me worried, like maybe he’s going to fire me or something? Maybe those weeks I couldn’t work he found someone better?
“So, I’ve been thinking...about when I said you were my son. And you called me Dad. Remember?”
“Sure.”
“Well...I want you to know, you can call me Dad, if you want to. I’d be proud to be your dad.”
“Thanks. I guess...” I stop, not knowing what to say.
“Or stay with William. Either way.”
“It’s what we’re used to,” I say, “but could I just think of you as my dad?”
“Like I said. I’d be proud.”
We share an awkward hug, and I get up to go back to work.
“Hang on,” William says. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something else, too... You know how everyone’s always saying how you have so much potential, and you should be going to college?”
I nod.
“Well, you should feel free to change your mind if you want to. You’re the best worker I’ve ever had, and you’ll be good at the business end of things, but...”
“I don’t want to change my mind. I like painting with you. I don’t want to be stuck behind a desk. I like doing something physical.”
“Yeah. It’s physical all right,” William says, rubbing his shoulder. “You should think about that. You’re a whiz now, but the work gets harder as you get older. I’m only thirty-seven and sometimes I feel like an old man already.”
“I’m not changing my mind. I like how we make things look so much better. I like color.”
“Well, okay then.” William smiles his widest smile, and we go back to work.
Once home, I shower, dress in a clean shirt and jeans, go out to the living room where Max sits reading and give her a kiss on the cheek. She raises her head, looks me up and down.
“You’re going to Bistro 17 wearing that?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No,” she says, taking me by the arm and leading me back to my bedroom. She gets out the dress pants, shirt, and tie I wore to Mario’s graduation from the academy last summer.
“You can’t wear everyday clothes to Bistro 17. It’s not that kind of a restaurant.”
“I wish I wasn’t even going,” I say. “Let Rosie go with her parents.”
Max unbuttons my shirt and hands me the dress shirt.
“Okay. Okay! But I’m not wearing that tie!”
“You want to borrow one of William’s?”
“No! I’m not wearing any tie!”
Max laughs and goes back out to the living room. I do a quick change and interrupt her reading again to say goodbye.
“Ai, you look so handsome, Mio,” she says, tearing up.
I make a run for the door, not wanting to see her tears and hear “You’re so grown up and only yesterday...” I mean, I like that she loves me, but the teary stuff is kind of uncomfortable. I don’t know why. It just is.
IT’S A LITTLE BEFORE six when I get to the restaurant and Rosie’s waiting for me right inside the door. She gives me a big, glowing smile, and I realize it’s been a while since I’ve seen that smile. Maybe it wasn’t anything about us that was causing her to seem grumpy and distant. Maybe it was only that she was so stressed about getting into college. Whatever the reason, I’m glad to see her smile again.
I follow her through a dimly lit room, past tables with white tablecloths and candles and wineglasses, and people eating, mostly in pairs or groups of fours, and on out to a patio where Rosie’s mom and dad and sister are at a big round table next to a glowing fire pit.
Mr. Coulter stands to shake my hand. I liked him from the beginning, when he passed the “shake the deformed hand” test.
“Glad you could join us, Eddie,” he says, smiling. I’d think Rosie got her great smile from him, except he’s not her real dad. Rosie says he is her real dad, but you know what I mean. Not her sperm dad.
Rosie takes the chair next to Mr. Coulter, and I sit next to her, with Zoe on the other side.
Even though it’s a chilly evening, between the warmth from the fire pit and the large outdoor heater nearby, it’s comfortable out here. But, boy, it’s a good thing Max made me change clothes. Everybody’s all dressed up. I’m happy to see that Mr. Coulter isn’t wearing a tie, though. I don’t think anyone wears ties anymore except politicians, and school administrators, and Cameron.
A waiter comes with wine for Rosie’s parents and three more wineglasses with something that turns out to be Sprite for Rosie, Zoe, and me.
“A toast,” Mr. Coulter says, raising his glass. “To Rosie and her exciting new life at University of the Foothills.”
Everyone raises their glasses except Zoe, who sits slumped and pouting between me and her mom.
“Zoe? A toast? To Rosie’s new life at college?” Rosie’s mom says.
Zoe slumps lower and deepens the frown on her pouty face. “I don’t want Rosie to go away to some stupid old college! She’s s’posed to stay home with me!”
Mrs. Coulter moves the wine glass beyond Zoe’s reach. “No toast, no Sprite,” she says.
Zoe reaches for her glass. Mrs. Coulter slides it over. Mr. Coulter again raises his glass, “To Rosie and her new life at UOF,” and we all click glasses and take our first sips.
Really, I’m with Zoe on this one. I don’t want Rosie to go away to college, either. I’m happy she’s got her smile back, but it’s hard to imagine that she’ll be moving away in September. Or will it be August? Whenever, it’ll be sooner than I want it to be.
There’s a lot of chatter about college, and UOF, and dormitory arrangements.
Mrs. Coulter turns to Rosie. “I’m so proud of you—so glad you’re doing things the right way, not in that roundabout way like I did.” She gets that teary-eyed mom look, and Rosie looks down at her Sprite-filled wine glass. I guess that stuff embarrasses her, too.
Mr. Coulter’s watching Rosie’s mom. He raises his glass again. “And here’s to Emmy, for the strength and courage to make the roundabout way work.”
We all raise our glasses to that, too. I guess the “roundabout” way he’s talking about has to do with Mrs. Coulter getting pregnant in high school, and going to college with Baby Rosie and with hardly any money or family support.
After more talk of college life and the Music Therapy program, and Zoe slumping back down with her pouty face, Mr. Coulter turns to me, “Where will you be going next year, Eddie? Do you know yet?”
“I’m not going to college,” I say.
“Taking a gap year, are you?”
“I’ll be working with my stepdad in his painting business—studying for my painting contractor’s license.”
“Not going to college?”
“No. Going to work.”
Mr. Coulter pauses, like he doesn’t know what else to say.
Zoe perks up. “You do that, Rosie! You can paint!”
“But I want to be a music therapist, remember?”
Zoe slumps back down.
Rosie’s dad says, “Well. You can always change your mind, go to Hamilton Heights Community College.”
I nod. This is how all conversations with non-family adults have gone since the beginning of my senior year: I’m not going to college. I’m going to work with William. You can always go to community college. It’s a broken record.
After an awkward silence, Rosie’s mom picks up her menu. “Let’s see what we’re going to eat. I’m starving.”
There’s stuff on this menu I’ve never eve
n heard of. Pickled fennel, smoked chickpeas, wild arugula and forbidden black rice, something called a Toy Box tomato. And the prices! $32 for a pork chop? And $26 for the chef’s pasta. There’s a beef filet for $46???? For one person?
Mr. Coulter tells us to order anything we want, it’s a special celebration. He beams at Rosie, then turns his attention to the menu. What to order? I like salmon, but $33.45? I keep my eyes on the menu, as if studying it, and listen to what the others are considering. Mr. Coulter decides to have the Seared Maple Leaf Duck Breast, with blackberry gastrique, whatever that is. Mrs. Coulter’s going for the Honshimeji Mushroom & Spring Vegetable Risotto. Pizza’s on the menu. Fancy pizza. “Artisanal” pizza cooked in an 800-degree oven. I’d order pizza, but maybe that seems too everyday for this place?
“What’re you going to have?” I half-whisper to Rosie.
“Ummm,” she says, checking the menu. “Either the risotto, or a Caesar salad with chicken.”
So, okay, the Caesar salad’s a good choice, but I’ll have mine with grilled shrimp instead of chicken so I won’t be a total copycat.
When it’s Zoe’s turn to order, she says, still slumped down, “Plain pizza.” Mrs. Coulter asks if they can get a pizza with only tomato sauce and mozzarella, and the waiter writes what seems a lengthy note on his order pad.
“Hey, Eddie,” Rosie says, “Tell Zoe a joke so she can stop being such a grouch.”
Zoe sits up a little straighter. “Yeah, Eddie.”
Everyone at the table’s looking at me. “I can’t think of a joke right now.”
“C’mon, Eddie!” Zoe says.
“Just tell her any old joke,” Rosie whispers.
“Well, okay...What happens when it rains cats and dogs?”
“What?” Zoe says.
“You have to guess.”
“Just tell me!” Zoe says.
“Nope. You have to guess. What happens when it rains cats and dogs?”
“Ummm. You could get hit on the head?”
“Nooooo. You might step in a poodle.”
Zoe dissolves in laughter, which gets everyone else laughing. “Another one!” she says, pulling at my sleeve.
“Okay, but that’s it.”
“And one with dessert!”
“Zoe. Stop pestering Eddie,” Mrs. Coulter says. “You’ve got to eat your dinner before you even think about dessert.”
“Tell me an elephant joke!” Zoe says.
The pest has been begging for dog jokes lately, so it takes me a minute to pull an elephant joke out of my memory. “Okay. What time is it when an elephant sits on your watch?”
“What time?” Zoe says.
I shake my head.
“Ummm. Is it lunchtime?”
“No. It’s time to get a new watch.”
Another round of laughter. Zoe laughs at my joke. The rest of us laugh at Zoe laughing at my joke. There’s more college talk, and some talk about the raid on those Patriot places. I wasn’t the one who brought that subject up.
“It’s hard to believe all that was going on a few miles away from where we’re sitting right now!” Mr. Coulter says.
“I haven’t seen any of those Patriot guys at school since the raid,” Rosie says. She glances my way, but I’m concentrating on drinking my Sprite. I know she’s dying to tell what she’s heard from me, but I’ve sworn her to secrecy.
Mrs. Coulter asks what I’m reading now.
“I finished The Grapes of Wrath. Now I’m starting that book you loaned me a while back, Thunderstruck. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get around to it. Do you need it back?”
Mrs. Coulter laughs. “I’d forgotten I’d even loaned it to you.
“I didn’t think I’d read it. It’s a lot longer than most of the books I read.”
“But after the first page?” Mr. Coulter says.
“I kept reading.”
“It’s compelling, isn’t it?” Mrs. Coulter says. “There’s so much history in it, but it reads like a novel.”
Rosie says, “Starting on the last day of high school, I’m gonna read a book a week. Every week until I go to UOF. Anything I want. I can read anything I want!”
Mrs. Coulter laughs. “That warms a librarian’s heart.”
“It’s been a long time since I read The Grapes of Wrath,” Mr. Coulter says. “But I still remember how Tom Joad—Tom, right?”
I nod.
“How Tom Joad’s mother was so afraid he’d be killed, like the preacher who was killed standing up for the poor people and getting them to stand up for themselves. And then Tom’s going to do the same thing. Right? And that idea that we don’t have separate souls, we’re all part of one big soul. So, even if Tom gets killed, his soul would be everywhere. Right?”
“Yeah, I know the part you’re talking about,” I say.
“Well, I like that idea, that all of humanity is one big soul instead of a lot of separate, competing souls,” he says.
I start to say how I like that idea, too, when the food arrives. And then all we’re doing is eating. Which is fine with me because this is the best Caesar salad I’ve ever tasted in my whole life.
I rest my free hand, under the table, against Rosie’s upper leg. She runs a finger down my forearm to the tip of my hand and back again. I move my hand to the inside of her thigh, only the silk of her dress separating skin from skin.
“Another joke!” Zoe calls.
“Let’s get our dessert order in first,” Mrs. Coulter says.
Rosie takes my hand and moves it from her upper thigh back to a resting place on the table. We sit there, holding hands, as if that’s all there is to it. But I know there’s more.
“Chocolate soup!” Zoe says.
“Chocolate soup for me, too,” Rosie says. “That’s what you should have, too,” she tells me, “gain more weight back.”
We all order chocolate soup, which turns out to be a heavy chocolate sauce served in a soup bowl, with a scoop of “house made” vanilla ice cream floating on top.
With dessert comes one more corny joke, not worth repeating, and a little more talk about what a life-changing experience college will be for Rosie.
When Mr. Coulter looks at the check, he says to Rosie, “I’m sorry, Honey. We just spent your first year’s tuition.”
Rosie smacks him on the arm. “Not funny, Dad.”
After dinner, I drive me and Rosie around for a while, giving the rest of them a chance to settle in with “Modern Family” before we go back to Tilly. Not that Tilly’s off bounds or anything, just...awkward.
I take us past William’s mom’s house to show Rosie where we’ve been painting.
“It’s kind of a creepy neighborhood,” she says. “All that graffiti and so much trash in the lot across the street. Isn’t his mom afraid she’ll get robbed, or mugged, or something?”
“She says she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. People look out for each other.”
“It still feels creepy to me.”
I drive us over to the San Marino house which Rosie likes better. Then I drive us to a place in Hamilton Heights that we painted last year. I don’t know why it’s taking me so long to get us back to Rosie’s. I’ve been wanting so much to get into Tilly with Rosie again. Between my slow recovery, and Rosie’s study schedule, it’s been a while. Now? Maybe I’m kind of nervous? But when Rosie runs her hand from my knee to the top of my thigh, and says she hears Tilly calling to us, well...I get us back there in a hurry.
As much as I’d rather Rosie not go away to college, it’s cool how free-spirited she is now that she’s been accepted to UOF. Honestly, I’d secretly hoped she wouldn’t get in, and she’d end up at HHCC, and things could stay the same with us. But the acceptance brought her easy laugh back, and her broad smile, and her warmth, so I get that it’s as important for her to go off to college as it is for me to stay here and work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Transitions
Once Rosie was accepted to UOF and the pressure
was off, we spent almost all of our spare time together. After work with William, or after I’d cleaned Joe’s studio, or after Rosie’s soccer practice or game, we’d get together. Sometimes she’d walk Peppy and Buddy with me, or sometimes we’d hang out with Brent and Brianna at the park. Or we’d play cornhole at Brent’s. Usually Meghan and Cameron came for cornhole, too.
Meghan got to be so good at cornhole we started teasing her about getting a cornhole scholarship to M.I.T. She was about as interested in M.I.T. as Brent was, though. She’s going to some fashion design school in September. She falls for a guy who wears Toughskins and a tie, and she’s going into fashion? Another of the mysteries of Cameron’s appeal. But one of Meghan’s major interests is Islamic fashion—she says it’s the fastest growing fashion market in the U.S. She’s not Muslim, but it’s a big market.
We did all of the high school senior things—prom, all night party, senior picnic, big graduation ceremony. There were 822 graduates, and the ceremony was on a Friday afternoon in the Hamilton Heights Civic Auditorium. Cameron and the other seniors in the band were already up front, but the rest of us slow-walked down the long aisle to the band playing “Pomp and Circumstance,” the way we’d practiced the day before.
After everyone got where they were supposed to be, Mr. Hockney did the welcoming thing—a great occasion, proud day for graduates, also for those who offered love and guidance along the way, etc. Already I was starting to sweat in my poly-ester cap and gown.
Hockney said that since the beginning, Hamilton High has been a safe and welcoming place to students of diverse ethnic, racial, and religious backgrounds. But, as he was sure we all knew, there’d been some troubling “incidents” over the course of the past school year in which a small group of students were claiming to be the “real Americans,” and had bullied others who didn’t fit their “real Americans” category.
He went on, “And now, as our graduates prepare to take their next steps in the broader world, and as we all go about our daily lives, the choir seniors, with your help, will honor the real Americans. Please remain standing after the national anthem.”
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