Head Games

by Thomas B Cavanagh

  Yeah. If that was really God’s plan, I wish He would’ve just hit me with a bus and been done with it. George had really become a myopic crackpot. Did he really just suggest that my terminal cancer had a reason, and it was to put me in a position to help him find a runaway millionaire kid who likes to meditate? I just stared at him.

  “You’re nuts. Really, George. You’re over the edge.”

  “Mikey. Think about it. Don’t say no yet. Think about Jennifer.”

  Now I took a deep breath. “How much?”

  “You find him and it’s fifty grand.”

  I let out a low whistle. That was well above the going rate for any private investigation I had ever heard of.

  “It gets better,” George said. “You find him before the tour starts and there’s another fifty. You find him before the tour starts and make sure he’s on the plane, you get two-fifty large, plus expenses.”

  I blinked. Had I heard that right? “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “This is very important to Eli.”

  “Damn, George.”

  “Think about it, Mikey. Just think about it.”

  Oh, I’d think about it, all right. Whether I wanted to or not.

  CHAPTER 2

  I was late, as usual. If there was one thing that Becky could count on during our marriage, it was that she could never count on me. But she was quiet as I stepped up to the table. She had become a lot more tolerant since Bob showed up. Plus, no matter how much I deserved it, she tended to bite her tongue whenever Jennifer was around. Not that it really mattered. Jennifer was fifteen years old and well aware of her dad’s shortcomings. I greeted them both and slid into the booth.

  It was Becky’s idea. With Bob’s arrival and the doctors unable to give me any kind of accurate timeline, Becky thought I should spend some quality time with Jennifer, before it was too late. I protested. I’m sure that the last thing Jennifer wanted to do with her summer vacation was spend it with her dying dad, whom she didn’t even like very much. On top of everything else, let’s add resentment to Jennifer’s long list of unresolved feelings about me.

  But Becky insisted and I’d learned long ago that when Becky gets squared on an idea, she’ll make it happen sooner or later. Arguing only prolonged the inevitable. So I acquiesced and agreed to meet them at Bennigan’s for dinner and to pick up Jennifer for a four-week visit to Bob-Land.

  “Mike … Hi,” Becky said, starting to rise. “How are you?” She winced, obviously not intending to ask that question. Before she could apologize, I held up a hand.

  “I’m good,” I said. “Don’t get up. You guys order yet?”

  Becky gave me a sad smile as I slid into the booth across from them. “Just drinks,” she said. She elbowed Jennifer, who finally met my eyes.

  “Hi,” Jennifer said.

  “Hey,” I replied, and was struck by just how much Jennifer looked like Becky. Both had brown hair with red highlights, Becky’s cut shorter than Jennifer’s shoulder-length style. They each had an attractive, thin face with a rounded chin and tapered nose.

  Becky was still beautiful. The only signs of aging were the little crinkles at the corners of her eyes, which somehow made her look more beautiful in a mature, confident way.

  Jennifer was growing into an attractive woman in her own right. At fifteen, she was still coltish with gangly limbs, but I could see the woman she would become. Once the braces came off and she grew into her frame, she would be a knockout.

  Jennifer continued looking at me before glancing back down at the table and taking a sip of her diet soda. That was when I remembered the only part of me that she had inherited—her eyes. She had wide-set, brooding eyes the color of sunlit emeralds.

  The waiter showed up, a kid barely older than Jennifer, and took our orders.

  The whole point of this dinner was for Becky to hand off Jennifer. Once we said hello and ordered, we had pretty much exhausted the possible topics for conversation. Becky and I were used to uncomfortable silences. They had been a staple of our marriage. But I felt bad for the kid.

  “So how was school this year?” I said and sipped the beer I had ordered.

  Jennifer twisted her lips, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Fine.”

  “You’re gonna be a junior, right?”

  She fiddled with the crumpled wrapper from her straw and sighed, a sigh that said I had guessed wrong and she knew I would. “Sophomore.”

  “Right.” I nodded and winced inside. “Driver’s ed this year. That’s cool.”

  She looked up at me through her eyebrows and clicked her tongue. I got the message. Don’t use words like cool. Don’t try to talk like me. Don’t try to “relate” to me. Fine with me, except I was using cool long before you were even born, kiddo.

  “They don’t have driver’s ed anymore,” she said.

  “What? Since when?”

  She shrugged and sipped her soda, looking away at the televisions behind the bar.

  “Budget cuts,” Becky offered.

  I nodded and took another sip.

  “Jennifer made the JV soccer team,” Becky said.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “That’s great.” Another sip. “Really great.” If Jennifer heard me, I couldn’t tell. Clearly the silent commercials on the bar TVs were a lot more interesting than me. I looked over at Becky and raised my eyebrows, an I told you this was a bad idea gesture that I knew she would understand. She exhaled and shot me a defiant look to keep trying.

  Maybe later. “How’s Wayne?” I said as nonchalantly as I could, taking another sip.

  “He’s fine,” Becky said, equally nonchalant.

  “Bone business doing well?”

  About two years after our divorce Becky had met and married Wayne Graddo, by all accounts a decent guy. Wayne was an orthopedic surgeon and made way more jack than I ever would as a city cop, even as a detective. They—Becky, Jennifer, Wayne, and, on alternating weekends, Wayne’s two younger boys—lived in a five-bedroom house on a lake in Windermere. Becky drove a Lexus SUV and, since she didn’t have to work, devoted her considerable free time to worthy causes such as literacy and homelessness. When Becky remarried, it had stung. Not so much because she was now with another man but more the fact that she had clearly traded up. Guys’ egos are amazingly selective. We all think we’re the alpha catch and that any woman should feel lucky to have us. But when confronted with a truckload of empirical evidence that Wayne was clearly better than me in all measurable criteria—salary, emotional maturity, looks, parenting skills, golf handicap—it was pretty hard to swallow.

  “Wayne’s doing fine,” Becky repeated. “He just opened a new office on Semoran.”

  “Yeah? What’s that mean, a new summer house in the Carolinas?”

  Becky shook her head. “Mike … don’t. Not now.”

  “He already has a summer house in the Carolinas,” Jennifer said, still watching the televisions behind the bar. I took a long pull on the beer and drained it.

  The food finally appeared and we were saved from more charming conversation by the busywork of eating. When I was done, I excused myself to the men’s room. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror. I needed a haircut. There was now more gray than brown on my scalp, and I always thought a trim made me look younger. But who was I kidding? I was forty-two years old, not quite six feet tall, and 195 pounds. I was on the downslope of life and looked it. Dark bags under my eyes. Soft cheeks. Receding hairline. Brain tumor.

  I ran my fingers over the area of my head that had been shaved for the biopsy. The hair had mostly grown back in the patch over the left ear, but I could feel the little scar, still tender from the procedure. How much time did I really have? The doctors all tried to avoid the question. They hated being wrong, even if they were wrong on the good side, because it just illuminated how powerless they really were. But none of the estimates gave me more than a year.

  When I returned to the table, I saw that Becky had alr
eady paid the check and they were waiting for me by the front door. We walked out together.

  “Jenn, why don’t you get your bag?” Becky said, clearly a signal that she wanted to talk privately to me for a moment. Jennifer headed for the Lexus without a word. I watched her, saying nothing. This was Becky’s show and she should have the first line.

  “Don’t blow this, Mike. That’s your daughter. Think how you’ll want her to remember you. How she’ll describe you to her children someday.”

  “She’ll describe Wayne.”

  “Mike, please…” Then I noticed that Becky was crying, trying to hold it back. But now the emotions were starting to bubble out faster than she could keep them in. “It’s not fair.”

  I nodded. “For once, I think we agree on something.”

  Becky wiped her eyes and reached for my hand. She placed her other hand on my cheek. It was warm and soft. “I always…”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Then Becky hugged me, a desperate hug driven not from passion but from fear. A clutching embrace where she could bury her sobs in my shoulder. I rubbed her back and tried my best to avoid looking at Jennifer. After a moment, Becky recovered and suddenly broke away, saying nothing more, and strode purposefully toward Jennifer, who stood with her duffel next to my pickup. Becky grabbed her arm and leaned in close, whispering something to Jennifer, some last-minute instruction. Jennifer made no response, only looked at her feet. Becky shook Jennifer’s arm slightly and the conversation was over.

  In another few seconds Becky was in the Lexus and on her way out of the parking lot, offering one last furrowed glance at me through the tempered windshield. Then she was gone.

  I unlocked the truck’s passenger door and Jennifer climbed wordlessly into the cab. By the time I slid into the driver’s seat, she had pulled out a portable CD player and earphones. I cranked the ignition.

  She looked out the passenger window and spoke. “If you think you’re gonna suddenly be Father of the Year or something, like some lame after-school special … it’s way too late for that.” She put in the earphones, cranked up the volume, and leaned back, eyes closed.

  I put the truck in gear and thought, that’s my girl.

  * * *

  The evening went about as well as dinner until nine thirty, when Cam showed up with a large pepperoni pie and a bottle of Chianti.

  “Cam,” Jennifer said. “Thank God you’re here.” They embraced.

  After my divorce from Becky, Camilla Thackery-Hart and I had been married for four whirlwind years before we, too, divorced, almost two years ago. But we had remained friends—actual, honest-to-God buddies. Better friends now than when we were married. Cam had blond hair, long, bronzed legs, and full lips that parted to reveal a crooked smile that contained just a hint of mischief. After being humbled by the quality of Becky’s new husband, my ego had come full circle from thinking I was God’s gift to wondering what in hell a woman like Cam saw in me. But Cam was and would always be a mystery. Her continuing interest in me was just part of the puzzle.

  “Here,” Cam said, digging in her large designer purse. “Have you seen this one? You have to see this one. You haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

  She produced a DVD of some teen romance I had never heard of and Jennifer’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh my God…,” Jennifer said. “You’re such the bomb.” She snatched the DVD and headed for the living room. It was no wonder that Jennifer gravitated toward Cam. Where Becky represented stability and domesticity, Cam was spontaneous, brash, and reckless. She was also eight years younger than Becky, which added to her mystique. A statuesque beauty, Cam dressed in designer clothes, usually black, and was always up on the latest pop culture. I saw more of Jennifer during my marriage to Cam than I had since she was four years old. Cam taught Jennifer how to put on makeup. Took her shopping and bought her a pair of Prada shoes. Since our split, I had hardly seen Jennifer at all. Divorcing Camilla was just one more of my many transgressions.

  “Michael William Garrity,” Cam said, laying a palm on my kitchen counter. “You look like crap.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said.

  “Here, have a slice. Seriously. Your hair’s too long. You look exhausted.” She glanced down in my garbage pail and spotted the Twinkies box. “Nice. I see that you’re finally trying that new all-Twinkie diet I’ve read so much about. How’s that going?”

  “Cam…,” I said, smiling in spite of her chiding.

  “No, seriously, Michael. How’s that Twinkie diet going? Did your doctor recommend that?”

  “Yeah. Eat two Twinkies and call me in the morning.”

  “That isn’t going to help you.”

  “No kidding.” She knew what I meant. Nothing was going to help me.

  She sighed dramatically and looked me in the eye for a long moment. Then she shoved a slice of pizza into my mouth and kept pushing until almost the whole piece was crammed in, grease oozing down my chin. She was laughing, and if my mouth weren’t full of scalding hot pizza, I would have been laughing, too.

  “It’s the newest thing,” she said as I tried to chew. “The all-pizza diet.” She took the pizza, the Chianti, and an empty glass into the living room to join Jennifer in front of the TV.

  Cam was the buffer that Jennifer and I both needed. The evening passed pleasantly and the movie wasn’t even as bad as I thought it would be. Jennifer loved it. Cam and Jennifer lounged on opposite ends of the couch, their legs lying casually parallel to each other.

  When the movie ended, Jennifer and Cam talked a little about movies and boys, some of which I would probably rather not have heard. Jennifer showed such little regard for my role as her parent, she spoke as if I weren’t even in the room. I know, being as absent in her life as I was, I had no right to feel protective, but it’s still hard to sit and listen to your daughter describe some boy in her algebra class as “such a hottie.” I tried not to listen, concentrating instead on the Chianti and channel surfing.

  My ears perked up, however, when Jennifer mentioned her new favorite band, Boyz Klub.

  “They are so cute,” she gushed. “Especially TJ.”

  “What’s so great about Boyz Klub?” I asked. An awkward silence fell over the room. They looked at me like I had just farted.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Jennifer said.

  “That’s a given,” I said. “But all the same, I’m curious. What’s so great about them?”

  “They’re four cute guys,” Cam said. “Who can sing and dance.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But there are a lot of bands like that. What makes Boyz Klub any better than, say, the Backyard Boys or—”

  “Backstreet Boys,” Jennifer corrected.

  “Right. Them. Or that other one, y’know…”

  “’N Sync,” Cam said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Them.”

  Jennifer exchanged a look with Cam to confirm that I was really serious. Cam raised her eyebrows. If he really wants to know, tell him.

  “Backstreet Boys are still okay,” Jennifer said. “I mean, they’re kinda cute and all, but they’re getting old and married and stuff. I still listen to ’em, but Boyz Klub are younger. More on the edge.”

  “They all sound the same to me,” I said.

  “They would,” Jennifer said with a roll of the eyes.

  I couldn’t let it go. “Aren’t they all part of the same marketing machine? I mean, don’t the same people write all their songs and record them and manage them and—”

  “You are so wrong,” Jennifer said with a little too much defensiveness. “Boyz Klub write almost all their own songs. They sound totally different.”

  “Okay. Relax. And you like TJ?” I said.

  “I guess…”

  “You mentioned him by name.”

  “So?”

  “So, what makes him the one you mention by name?”

  Jennifer chewed the inside of her cheek. “Why are you asking me all this?”

>   “I’m curious. I want to know more about your interests.”

  “Bullshit,” Jennifer said.

  I opened my mouth to chastise her use of profanity, but couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound hypocritical. While I hesitated, the phone rang. Jennifer looked at her watch.

  “That’s Gwen,” she said, bounding up. “I’ll take it in my room.” And then she was gone, barricaded behind the closed door of my guest bedroom.

  Cam tilted the last drop of Chianti out of the bottle into her mouth. She looked at me and smiled.

  “Well, this is going well,” I said.

  “She’s fifteen,” Cam said.

  I sighed and rubbed my face. When I took my hands away, Cam was still looking at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You mind if I stay tonight?”

  My eyebrows went up. “What about Ted?”

  “Todd.” She threw her head back and exhaled loudly. “Todd is a work in progress. I just don’t have the energy anymore.”

  “So he’s gone?”

  “Adios, muchacho.”

  “And … what, you think you can just snap your fingers and I’ll sleep with you?”

  Cam made a show of placing the bottle on the coffee table and sauntering over to me. She plopped down in my lap and put her arms around me.

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “I have some self-respect, you know.”

  She kissed my forehead. “I know.”

  “I’m not some boy toy at your beck and call.”

  Her lips brushed my cheek. “Of course not.”

  “I’m your ex-husband. Ex.”

  “Rhymes with sex,” she said, and pressed her lips against mine.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cam and I had been sleeping together about once every three months for the past year. It was actually kind of nice and I didn’t feel as cheap as I should have. Cam always initiated it—I wouldn’t have the nerve or be willing to risk the rejection. Plus, I never knew when she was between her many relationships.