“Are you scared?” Harry pirouetted through a tic.
Felix opened his mouth to reprimand Harry for not controlling his own body, but nothing slipped out. The tic didn’t even bother him that much. What really bothered him at this precise moment was the truth. “Terrified. You?”
Harry threw himself back on Ella’s side of the bed, facedown. Then he grabbed one of her pillows and bundled it under his head. “Dad, what did you want from life at my age?”
“To pass my A-levels with all As and sit Oxbridge—the exam that would get me into Oxford or Cambridge.”
“No, I mean big picture.”
“Be the best.”
“That was it? No dreams?”
“I’m not much of a dreamer, Harry.”
“But wasn’t there one thing you wanted more than anything else?”
Escape from my parents. Felix picked up the silver hallmarked photo frame on his bedside table. Ella on their wedding day, wearing a beautifully understated dress and carrying a bouquet that Mother had criticized openly. No veil, a simple hairdo, and dramatic earrings only Ella could have designed. Even then, Ella knew her heart. She had always known her heart. That was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with her—her certainty, her confidence. Enough confidence for two. “I wanted to fall in love with the perfect woman.”
“And you did,” Harry said.
Felix smiled. “I did.”
“Sammie’s being really nice to me.” Harry tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “She gave me this.”
Now the little pony on the very small T-shirt made sense. What a relief. A moment ago, he’d feared his son was regressing.
“She’s cute, your Sammie.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?”
The heating kicked on and a rush of hot air filled the room.
“Are you two officially going out?”
“Doesn’t really work like that these days.” Harry gave a lopsided grin.
“You like her, though.”
Harry messed with the pillow. “I think I’m in love with her.” Then he flipped over and lay on his back. “And the timing sucks. I feel horribly guilty, like I should be worrying about Mom, not thinking about being in love.”
“I’m sure your mother is thrilled. Falling in love for the first time is a rite of passage.”
“Mom doesn’t really know about Sammie. I mean, she knows I have a crush on her, but we haven’t talked—I mean, really talked—recently.”
Harry had told him something before telling Ella?
Harry’s arm flopped over the edge of the bed and swung back and forth as if he were lying in a boat, trailing his arm through the water. When they went back to England this summer, he would take Ella and Harry to Oxford, and they would punt on the River Cherwell. Maybe they’d have a meal at the Cherwell Boathouse. Or they could pack a picnic of cucumber sandwiches and fresh strawberries with clotted cream and champagne. He might even let Harry have a half glass of Moët, since he would be close enough to the English drinking age of eighteen.
“I want to be with Sammie forever. She’s perfect.”
“That may change. First love is a fickle monster.”
“Do you remember your first kiss?”
Did he ever. “Playground.” Felix ran his hands over the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t shaved since Friday morning. “She kicked me in the shin, and it bloody well hurt. Have you and your mother talked about . . .” His voice dried up. He’d learned the facts of life from Tom. He’d learned everything useful from Tom.
“Talked about what, Dad?”
“Sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll—condoms.”
“Yeah. Mom told me everything when I was little. And then I told Max and he got into trouble, and Max’s mom had words with Mom in the school parking lot.”
“Really?” It was as if his family had lived a whole life he knew nothing about. Felix jiggled his wedding ring. Actually—they had.
Harry smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“For what?”
“Being honest with me about Mom. About how sick she is. It’s worse when people won’t tell you the truth, because your mind fills in the gaps. And”—Harry wriggled to get under the duvet, then molded Ella’s pillow round his head—“it’s reassuring. To know you’re scared, too.”
“Solidarity in fear?” Was this the big, amorphous it of the father-son relationship? Being honest even if it stripped you bare?
“I guess. This pillow smells of Mom.”
I know.
Harry nestled deeper. “Does Gramps know about Mom?”
“No. It’s not a decision I agree with, but your mother’s very protective of your grandfather. Again, she’s doing what she feels is right. We have to respect that.”
“Dad, why don’t you ever talk about your father?”
“I prefer to forget him.” If only I could.
“Why?”
“He’s not worth remembering.”
The room seemed to shrink. Felix wasn’t sure he could breathe. Would Harry have the identical conversation with his own son one day? My father’s not worth remembering.
“I need to tell you something.” Felix sat on the foot of the bed, his back to Harry. “On the day you were born, I vowed I would never raise a hand against you. But when you were a toddler, I broke that vow. I smacked you across the back of the knees. It only happened once, but that’s not an excuse. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“I probably deserved it,” Harry said, the tone of his voice suggesting a smile. “I was a lot to deal with, even then.”
“Never say that. No one deserves to be hit. It was wrong and I knew better. But sometimes anger is the only emotion I understand.”
“I nearly hit Mom once.” Harry crackled his knuckles, and Felix turned sharply. “I mean, I don’t think she realized. It was during the rage attacks, and I had my softball bat in my hand. The rage was burning me up. And I-I nearly took a swing at her.”
Felix put his hands on the bed for support; they sank into the duvet. “But you didn’t.”
“No, and the rage attacks stopped soon after. But the knowledge of what I might have done was terrifying. I was this close to complete loss of control.” Harry sat up and pinched his thumb and index finger together.
“Those rage attacks,” Felix said. “I always thought they came from me, from my DNA.”
“A lot of Tourette’s kids have them, Dad.”
“Do you remember much from back then?”
Harry hugged his knees. “Bits. It was like a different me. I was angry all the time, and when I wasn’t angry, I was a hot mess of guilt. I would hear Mom crying and think I was the worst kid. You never cried, though. That made me feel better.”
“Seriously?”
“You didn’t get sucked in. It’s like you were this force of control. Everything I wasn’t, but needed. Does that make sense?”
Felix didn’t dare say anything, couldn’t risk ruining the moment.
“I would come out of my room after I’d trashed it and be totally freaked out by what I’d done, but the rest of the house would be, you know, orderly and predictable. Everything as it should be.”
“Part of me understood that rage, Harry. I have blind anger. So did your grandfather.”
“Dad, did your father ever hit you?”
Felix turned away from Harry and faced his reflection in Ella’s full-length mirror. His father’s eyes stared back. Cold. Hateful.
He whipped me. Like a dog.
Once, Ella had asked about the scars hidden low beneath the waistband of his jeans. He couldn’t remember what he’d told her. Certainly not the truth, too shameful to admit to the woman he loved. Only two people knew the real story, and they were both dead.
“I can’t talk about it, Harry.”
“That’s okay. I understand. But if you wanted to, you know, I’d listen.”
“Are you good at that—listening?”
“My friends think so. Besides, when your best friend�
��s Max, you have to listen a lot. Tension at home and all that.”
“I imagine it’s not easy having an autistic younger brother.” Maybe he’d been too hard on Max. After all, not every big brother could be Tom.
“Oh, no, he and Dylan are fine.” Harry flopped back, pulling the duvet up to his chin. “It’s with the parentals, as Max calls them.”
“Really? His mother and father seem so normal.”
“Exactly. And, like, Max lives in a parallel universe.” Harry paused. “Dad—why didn’t you and Mom have more kids?”
We didn’t plan for any kids. “We never really discussed it. You came into our world as a fireball, and our family was forged in nuclear energy.”
“Right. Who’d want two of me?”
Harry snuggled under the duvet, and Felix tried to think of a comment other than “Yes. One of you was more than enough.” Instead, Felix walked around to Ella’s side of the bed and tucked their son in.
“It’s nearly your birthday.”
“Yeah, how about that?” Harry gave a big yawn.
“Your mother, of course, bought and wrapped your presents months ago.”
Harry smiled. “Dad, I’m pretty comfy. You mind if I stay here for a while?”
“No. Happy seventeenth birthday, Harry Felix Fitzwilliam. Sweet dreams of Sammie.”
Harry closed his eyes. “Thanks.”
Felix turned off the lights and went back into the bathroom to finish sorting the laundry. Even on a Saturday night, an incomplete task had to be finished.
When he reemerged, Harry was asleep. Felix sank into the big club chair, Ella’s reading chair. Ella used to watch baby Harry sleep, but Felix had always been too scared, because if he’d started watching over their son, how would he ever have found the strength to stop?
The terror had been constant: terror of touching the baby, terror of doing something wrong. And then Harry grew into a walking, talking whirligig of impulsivity who toddled into Felix’s den one day when Ella was out and dumped the contents of Felix’s files across the carpet. Felix smacked him hard enough to leave a handprint on the back of Harry’s legs. By the time Ella came home, Harry had been bribed with ice cream and an expensive trip to the toy shop on Ninth Street. The next day, he had begun the process of retreating from Harry’s life, because after that, he no longer trusted himself to be alone with Harry.
Felix hadn’t planned to tell Harry about smacking him, but Harry had handled the revelation well. And yet, it had been little more than a pinpoint in time for Harry. The moment had held meaning only for Felix.
Midnight, and he was sleep deprived, yet wide awake, which made about as much sense as the rest of his life. He went into the living room, turned on Ella’s phone, and started moving everything from her calendar to his: birthdays, anniversaries, a dentist appointment for Harry, and an alert to turn the compost. (He made a note to research that on the Internet.)
At two o’clock, knackered almost to oblivion with a mind that continued to churn, he went into her messages and scrolled through the barrage of texts Harry had sent in the last week. No wonder Ella had relinquished her phone. Felix went farther and farther back, through their never-ending conversation, through the intimacy and understanding that he could never hope to achieve with his son. His name rarely appeared. It was as if he’d been a footnote in their lives.
FOURTEEN
“Dad, Dad. Wake up!”
Felix shot off the sofa and reached for his glasses. Why was it light outside, and why was Harry standing over him wrapped up in the white duvet, looking like the Michelin Man with a full head of hair?
“What are you doing out here?” Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked.
Good question. Felix swept his tongue round his mouth, which was dry and fuzzy and had a sour taste. “I was sorting through your mother’s calendar, and I must have conked out.” He massaged the crick in his neck. “Happy birthday.”
“Yeah, thanks. Listen—” Harry lowered his voice. “We have a problem. Mice. Or maybe rats. I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Shhh.” Harry grabbed his hand. “Quick, come now before they stop. They’re in the walls.”
The doorbell rang.
“Oh, that’s probably Eudora. I saw her in the garden with flower clippy thingies.”
“Who the hell’s Eudora?”
“Our neighbor.”
“We have a neighbor called Eudora?”
“You know.” Harry mimed out something that could have been interpreted as power walking. Or maybe he was constipated. “She walks with Mom?”
“I thought her name was Eleanor.”
“Dad.” Harry rolled his eyes and then skidded toward the door, the duvet—Felix’s duvet—dragging behind him. Trailing on the floor. Wash the sheets was definitely going on today’s to-do list.
Harry flung the front door open and pulled a little old lady inside. She was wearing a hat with earflaps, a huge puffy jacket, what appeared to be denim overalls (he would have called them dungarees two decades ago), and men’s work boots. And she was carrying purple gardening gloves and a pair of secateurs.
“Hey, Eudora,” Harry said in a stage whisper as he eased the front door closed. “We’ve got a rodent infestation. Wanna come hear?”
“Harry,” Felix said through gritted teeth.
“Lovely to meet you. You must be Felix. Eudora Jenkens.” She took a step toward him in her boots, her muddy boots. Her very muddy boots. On his pale oak hall floor. She held out her hand and Felix shook it. A leftie, and she didn’t wear a wedding band. “I sure am sorry to hear about your charming wife. Another two weeks in the hospital? My, my.” She shook her head.
How did this unknown person find out about Ella—the jungle telegraph?
“Now, I don’t want y’all worrying about the garden”—Felix hadn’t been—“I’ll keep an eye on it. I was fixing to cut back your hellebores, but I see they’re quite fine.”
“My hellebores?” Felix said.
“How silly of me. You probably know them as Christmas roses. Should you need references, I’d be more than happy to provide them, although I am an ambassador for the Blomquist Garden at Duke Gardens and a former president of the Chapel Hill gardening club.” Her voice was slightly breathy and her r’s soft; her tone dripped with old-fashioned southern hospitality. She gave a slow, genteel smile that said, I bite.
“But Lord have mercy, did you mention rodents? It sounds as if you need my expertise in other areas.” She took off her jacket—not her boots—and rolled up her shirtsleeves. “Now. How can I help?”
Brilliant. Not merely a nosey parker, but a nosey parker do-gooder. Felix ranked do-gooders at the same level as Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Thank you, but we don’t need any—”
“To hear them, we have to go into the bedroom.” Harry looked from Felix to Eudora with a shaky smile. “You might want to take your boots off first.”
“Of course, child.” Then she put the secateurs on top of the shoe cabinet and sat on the floor like an agile twenty-year-old. Her socks were neon orange.
Harry, jiggling from foot to foot and still mummified in the duvet, turned his back to Eudora and gave Felix a wide-eyed look that made less sense than a semaphore. Felix couldn’t think of a response. Quite simply, his life was no longer his own. There were rodents in his bedroom, a pair of rusty clippers on his ash shoe cabinet, and some mad old biddy with hideous socks sitting on his floor like a limber yoga master. He’d heard a news report once about frozen waste from a transatlantic jet hurtling down through the sky and crashing into someone’s house. Had frozen shit fallen on him right at that moment, it wouldn’t have surprised him. At all.
Harry waved for them both to follow. Wordlessly, they did.
As they filed into the bedroom—his bedroom—Felix remembered something from the night of Harry’s birthday sleepover. Scrabbling. Scrabbling was coming from the linen closet in the master bathroom.
“What do you think it
is?” Harry’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“Since there are no holes in the walls of our house and we have bird-proof cages over the outside vents”—Felix paused to inhale—“I can only assume the creature or creatures responsible chewed through the cedar siding.”
“Squirrels,” Eudora said.
“In my linen closet?”
“Nesting, if I had to guess.”
Squirrels making babies in his clean linen. And he needed to change the sheets. “I hate squirrels.”
“He does,” Harry said helpfully. “Loathes them. They ate the back of one of our outside chairs in the fall, and they dug the plants out of Mom’s pots. Made a terrible mess on the porch. Dad’s at war with them.”
“Have you tried sprinkling chili powder in the pots?” Eudora said.
Felix stared at her. “You don’t make authentic Brunswick stew, do you?”
Eudora gave a deep laugh that made him think of dark, paneled bars and, for some reason, flappers smoking cigars. “We’re going to become good friends, Felix.”
“Really.”
“Dad! We’re not killing anything and we’re not cooking it, either. And we’re not eating squirrel.”
“Squirrel is delicious,” Eudora said. “Tastes like rabbit.”
“Yuck, that’s gross,” Harry said.
Eudora made a move toward the bathroom. “Would you like me to have a look? I had squirrels in the attic last year.”
“No. I can’t let you do that.” Felix flinched. Every now and again, he heard the ghost of Pater’s voice in his own. I can’t let you do that. Pater dragged out can’t with a long imaginary r. So British and always a precursor to something bad.
“I’m not a fan of chivalry,” Eudora said, her voice sweet as strychnine.
“Neither am I. But no one’s going in there except for me.” He’d seen National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. He was not having a squirrel tearing through his house on a rodent rampage. “You’re both staying in the bedroom.”
“Whatever you say, hon.” Eudora put her arm around Harry. “Holler if you need us.”
The Perfect Son Page 13