“Dad, Dad.” Harry knocked again, louder.
Dad opened the driver’s side door. “Once would have been enough, Harry. I have a headache. No need to rap as though attempting to wake the dead.”
Dad’s eyes bored into Sammie. “The car is unlocked, you know. And since I’m not officially a chauffeur, I don’t need to open the door for you.”
Sammie squeezed his hand tight.
Be nice, Dad. Please, be nice.
“Sammie can’t get a ride this evening sooo can she come home with us?” Harry knew he was talking fast, but Dad had to say yes, and he had to like Sammie. That last bit was super important. Dad didn’t like surprises, and this was so totally off script, but he had to like Sammie.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Sammie said. So sweetly.
That had to thaw even Dad’s heart. Don’t screw this up for me, Dad. Please.
“I can help set up,” Sammie said.
“I’ve done everything.” Couldn’t Dad fake it, just for once pretend to be the laid-back, “whatever, dude” parent?
“Oh.” Sammie blushed.
“I’m assuming that’s a yes?” Harry said with a mega dose of bravado.
“Do I have a choice?”
Harry sighed. “I need you to do this. For me.”
Dad sighed, too. Two sighing guys in the school parking lot while the most beautiful girl in the world watched.
“Fine, yes.” Dad turned on the engine. “Nice to meet you, too, Sammie.”
“You’ll get used to my dad. He can be blunt.”
“You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m not here, Harry.” Dad gave him that look, the one that made Harry feel as if he were the size of a flea and even further down the list of life-forms. “What time did you say people were coming?”
They’d had this conversation. Several times. Why was Dad checking?
Harry opened the rear passenger door and let Sammie scramble inside, then joined her. No way was he sitting in the front while she was stuck in the back with Dad glaring at her in the rearview mirror.
“Six. Six sharp.” Harry smiled. At least, he tried. Best get all the news out at once and be done with it. “And Josh’s dad has a problem picking him up tomorrow. He asked if we could give him a lift home.”
Dad angled his head and turned away. “No.”
“Dad—”
“I said no, Harry.”
“Not even if you dropped him off on the way to the hospital?”
“Are you arguing with me?”
Really? Really! Dad had to pull this shit in front of Sammie?
“No. It’s fine. I’ll tell him to ask one of the other guys.” Harry looked at his lap. And Sammie reached over and wove her fingers through his. He knew Dad was watching. He knew, but he didn’t care. Sammie Owen, the most beautiful girl in the school, was holding his hand.
The kids turned toward Harry’s bedroom the second Felix unlocked the front door and canceled the burglar alarm.
“Harry, wait. A word, please.”
Harry looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Your door stays open.”
“Excuse me?”
“A new house rule when you have a girl over.”
“Great,” Harry mumbled as he slumped off. “Another house rule.”
“I heard that,” Felix called after him. Would it be inappropriate to have a whisky before the kids turned up? Highly inappropriate. Suppose another parent came to the house because it was polite to say hello to the parent in charge, and that person smelled alcohol on his breath and assumed Harry’s dad was an alkie . . .
No. No alcohol.
Felix focused on working down his to-do list. Everything was checked off by 5:45 p.m., and then he paced.
Guests arrived in dribs and drabs—the two girls came together—and Felix ordered the pizza. The kids had taken off their shoes in the hall, as Felix had requested, but they’d left them scattered. When the pizza delivery guy rang the doorbell, ten minutes behind schedule, Felix tripped over a particularly large white sneaker. The quintessential American sneaker, the ugliest shoe in the world, and it was defiling his hall.
He nearly yelled at the kids right then to leave. It took all his powers of concentration to swallow his irritation so that he could serve supper. An Oxford education reduced to slicing pizza.
The kids descended on the pizza like starving street urchins from Oliver! Trying to get them to line up led to failure, but he did force them to wait as he cut the pizza and handed it out one piece at a time, on double paper plates. Then they homed in on the dining room table, squishing into the six chairs. Two of the boys stood to eat. Why hadn’t he covered the floor with drop cloths?
When Max helped himself to a piece of Hawaiian pizza directly from the box, and a small chunk of pineapple fell to the wood floor, Felix rushed at him with a paper plate. And two napkins.
“Uh, thanks, Mr. FW,” Max said.
Felix couldn’t take his eyes off the kids for a second, especially not Max, who was barely house-trained. There was even a can of Coke sitting in the middle of the coffee table without a coaster underneath. Felix rectified the situation and wiped down the entire table with a wad of paper towels.
Then he retreated to stand behind the kitchen island, where he waited with the pizza cutter for the next half hour—to make sure nobody pulled a Max. Occasionally, he snuck glances at Harry and Sammie snuggled together on the same chair. In part he did this for Ella, who loved Harry’s birthday parties and would expect a detailed report. But he was also curious to see how Harry handled himself with a girl. At one point their foreheads touched, and Harry sat perfectly still—until he giggled at something Max said. Strange that Harry still had his little-boy giggle.
When the kids abandoned the dining room table to sprawl on the sofa, the floor, and the fireplace hearth, Felix started the cleanup with a black bin liner. Harry fired several blinking glances at him as he dumped all the paper plates and half-munched slices of pizza. Did this generation not finish anything?
Under the table, there was a snowdrift of candy wrappers. Why had he thought the bumper packs of individually wrapped candies were a good idea? He picked up one, two, three cans of soda, but they were all half- drunk. How could he rinse them out and recycle them when he didn’t know whether or not the kids were finished? What a waste if they were; what a waste if they weren’t. He dumped the cans anyway.
Someone cranked up the stereo, and Felix took out the trash. The hired help; he’d become the hired help. Even from outside, the house pulsed with teenage anarchy. And was every light on in the entire house? Did youngsters have any idea of the cost of electricity? He went back inside and barricaded himself in his bedroom.
The lunatics had taken over the asylum, and it was only 8:00 p.m. Two hours until he served the cake; three hours until the girls left; four hours until the implementation of the noise curfew. And then he would be alone with six boys. Would he sleep? Would they? Suppose they wandered off somewhere in the middle of the night, decided to go walkabout through Duke Forest at 2:00 a.m.? The evening stretched to infinity. He was not going to make it to noon the next day; he absolutely could not do this.
He called Ella’s mobile, but she didn’t pick up and the phone went to voice mail. Unsure what to say—other than help—he hung up. He could watch a movie, but suppose he got distracted and forgot to check on the kids? As the parent in charge of nine teenagers—nine—he had huge responsibilities. There would be no shirking of duty. He set the timer on his phone for thirty minutes. He would do a walk-through every half hour until the three girls left. Make sure there was no sex, no drinking, no smoking. Nothing that could be classified as monkey business.
By 9:00 p.m., Felix was contemplating breathing into a brown paper bag. His heart raced in one direction and his mind in another, galloping through a reel of nightmares that looped from one imagined catastrophe to the next: an uncoordinated teen tripping over his own feet and breaking a piece of f
urniture; a fight erupting, which seemed highly plausible given the boy-girl ratio; one of the kids—Max, no doubt—needing to be rushed to the ER for a stomach pump.
Someone yelled hysterically; feet pounded past his door. Kids were running inside his house. And Harry’s voice drowned out all the others. Why was his son not the quiet wallflower? Why couldn’t Harry blend in and disappear? Why couldn’t all the kids disappear?
Wait—earplugs! Ella often complained that he snored—he didn’t—but she kept earplugs in her bedside table. Earplugs were the solution!
As Felix rummaged around in the drawer, his fingers landed on a small wooden box. Too small to be a jewelry box; too small to be functional. Curious, Felix opened it, and there lay a half-smoked joint and a lighter. So Katherine was still sneaking pot into his house.
Despite the large number of illicit cannabis plants grown in his old dorm room, Felix didn’t know much about dope. But yes, he’d seen The Big Lebowski. He picked up the joint. Right now, his world was too bright, too clear, too damn loud; he just needed to soften the edges. Mute everything to a manageable level.
Sitting on the carpet with his back against the bed and his legs stretched out, Felix stared at the innocent-looking joint. A few puffs wouldn’t be that illegal, and no one would know. He just needed help coming down from the ledge so he could function for another—Felix glanced at his watch—two and a half hours.
In the hall, Harry screamed. There was energy, there was high energy, and then there was Harry. A whole subcategory of energy.
Felix put the joint in his mouth, lit the end, and inhaled. And nearly coughed up a lung.
He repeated. Nearly coughed up the other lung. The third hit wasn’t as bad. And the fourth was nice, quite nice.
Weird—he’d never noticed before how red the bedroom walls were. Of course he knew they were red—he’d painted them! But wow, the color really popped. He made the Winston Churchill V-for-victory sign with his fingers.
Scary teenagers! What scary teenagers?
Felix had dated a pothead briefly in college. The fact that she’d been a pothead was the reason the affair had been brief. Although it hadn’t really been an affair. Just lots of mediocre sex. She’d told him marijuana could make you paranoid, but she must have been lying, because his worries went pop! He put the joint on the bedside table, lay down on the carpet, and spread out his arms. A snow angel! The kids’ music wasn’t too bad, either. Humming along, Felix closed his eyes and let it throb through his muscles. He could feel every beat, every note. The music was in his bloodstream, drifting around his body, filling him with endorphins. Was this that Marilyn Manson guy? Not bad for a baby-eating psychopath. Eating! Felix got up. He was starving! Definitely had the munchies. Pizza! He needed a slice of pizza right now. And the strangest thing—he didn’t even care if it was Hawaiian.
He rocked himself up to his feet and paused. Stood absolutely still. Shhh.
A scrabbling noise came from the bathroom. What was that? More scrabbling. There was a creature in his bathroom! Felix grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut. Then he shot back into the corner of his bedroom. Panic zoomed out of nothingness. Down the hall, the kids laughed—at him? Had they discovered he was stoned and were making fun of him? Blood pumped in his brain, in his guts, in his throat. Heart palpitations—he had heart palpitations. His heart was about to burst. He was about to burst. Vomit, pass out, burn up. Die.
Breathe, he must breathe.
Somewhere a bell rang. The doorbell? Was one of the parents early? They hadn’t had cake yet. No one could leave—they hadn’t had cake!
Breathe, Felix, breathe.
His hair follicles prickled; flashing lights danced before his eyes. Oh God, this was not good, very not good.
Knocking on his door. Please don’t let it be a parent.
“Dad? Katherine’s here.”
The she-devil.
Another knock. “Felix? Are you decent?”
“Yes,” he said, because he couldn’t think and breathe and talk at the same time.
“Good, because I’m coming in.” Katherine opened the door, then her eyes grew wide and she stepped inside, slamming it behind her. “Felix! Are you stoned?”
“I feel a bit funny.”
She snatched up the joint. “How many hits did you have?”
He cowered in the corner. “Four?”
“Four. This is strong shit, buddy.” She shook her head.
“Please don’t tell Ella.”
“What were you thinking?”
“The party, I was anxious . . .”
“Felix, honey.” Her voice softened. “You shouldn’t smoke when you’re wound up.”
He was a failure, a huge failure. “Please”—he nodded at the joint—“take it away.”
She put it back in the little wooden box he’d dropped on the bed. A familiar routine, no doubt.
“You don’t want a hit?”
“No, Felix.” She frowned. “I never smoke if I’m driving. I’m not as irresponsible as you think I am.”
“But you and Ella, you’re always drinking wine and—”
“I never have more than one glass. I don’t drink and drive, either.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
More banging on the door. “Dad! Katherine! Can we do cake?”
Felix crossed his arms and started rubbing his shoulders. “I can’t go out there. I can’t.”
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Felix nodded again and again. Yes, tell me what to do.
“I’m going to deal with the cake. Is it in the fridge?”
More nodding. “There are paper plates and cocktail napkins and black plastic forks on the counter next to the kettle. And candles. And matches. And a cake slicer. And here.” He shoved his mobile at her, then huddled back into the corner. “You need to take a picture of Harry blowing out his candles and text it to Ella. I promised.”
“I can do all that, but you need to sit in the chair and focus on calming down. And I’m going to get you a glass of water.”
“No! Don’t go in the bathroom.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s a monster in there.”
“No, there isn’t.” She went into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
“No monsters?” he called out.
“No monsters.”
“Swear?”
Katherine handed him a red glass from the bathroom. It had taken him six months to find the perfect glasses, ones that matched the soap dish and the tissue holder.
“Pinkie swear,” she said. “No monsters.”
Smoking a joint before interacting with Katherine was definitely the way of the future. She wasn’t half bad when he was stoned. In a the-world’s-gone-pear-shaped way. Except that he never, ever planned to do this again.
Felix sank into the big club chair and tugged Ella’s cashmere throw around his shoulders. Hmm. Lavender, the scent of Ella’s clothes. Tomorrow he would buy all-new lavender sachets for her drawers.
“Are you going to tattle about this to Ella?” he said.
“Of course not. She has enough to worry about.”
“Katherine?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you here?”
“Ella asked me to come.”
Finally, something made sense. “She wants a full report on the party. I get it.”
But Katherine didn’t answer. “Drink the water. I’ll deal with the cake, and we’ll talk later.”
“Wait! What are you going to tell Harry?”
“That you have a migraine.”
“You’d lie for me?”
She folded her arms over her breasts. Nice breasts, actually. “Do you have a headache?”
“Bit of one, yes.”
“Then we’re not lying. Ella wants Harry to have good memories of tonight. It’s up to us to make sure he does. Your headache has suddenly become quite debilitating. I predict you won’t be able to poke your
head out of the rabbit hole for at least two hours.”
Felix held up his glass and stared through the red prism at the still water. He sloshed it around, trying to create a mini tsunami, but the water moved heavily like viscous blood.
Felix woke up in the chair, cuddling Ella’s cashmere throw like a security blanket. Katherine was perched cross-legged on the end of his bed, watching a barely audible movie on the television. The cable box flashed 11:30 p.m.
“Feeling better?” she said without shifting her eyes from the screen.
“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
She shrugged. “You’ve been under extraordinary stress, Felix. I think your body is trying to tell you something, but next time you want to get stoned—call me first.”
“There won’t be a next time. The girls?”
“Gone. The boys have retreated into Harry’s room for manly activities.” She covered up a yawn with her hand, and his guilt returned. She had to be as exhausted as he was, but she was still in motion.
“Thank you. You should go home now, Katherine; get some sleep. Will I see you tomorrow, when I pick up Ella from the hospital?”
“No.” Katherine held up the remote to click off the television. “Ella won’t be home tomorrow. That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Why?” He jumped up. “What happened?”
“Blood clot in the stent.” She stood too. “And her ejection fraction dropped.”
Ejection fraction, the percentage of blood pumped out with each cycle of the heart . . . and Ella’s figure was already less than half of a normal person’s. “You mean lower that it was—lower than thirty percent?”
She nodded. “Fifteen.”
“My wife’s heart is now seriously compromised, and you waited to tell me? How long have you known? When did it happen?”
“This afternoon.”
“Dear God. This could put her in class three heart failure. I’ve done my research. I know what it means to have another blockage at the same site. I know how high the mortality rates are. And you’ve been sitting on this information. You hate me that much?” He spun round, hands digging through his pockets. “Have you seen my car keys?”
The Perfect Son Page 11