While we were floating around between races, I asked Beau what grade he was in. He said, “Going into eighth.” I told him I was going into seventh, and he didn’t act snotty that I was younger. But maybe he already knew that from my dad.
Suddenly, a teenaged-looking guy in shorts came hauling down the stairs, ran to the far edge of the pool, and dove in. He swam underwater toward us, then dragged Beau under. It seemed way longer than a regular dunk before Beau popped to the surface, sputtering and cursing.
The kid swam back to the other end of the pool, leaving Beau clinging to the side with his chest heaving. When he had the wind, Beau called out, “You cretin!” But the other boy was already out of the pool and on his way upstairs. He-didn’t even turn around.
Beau looked at me and muttered, “My brother.”
“Your brother?”
Beau nodded. “One of them,” he said. “The ugly one.” Then he smiled a half smile.
“He almost killed you,” I said.
“Harsh fellow, that Eric,” Beau agreed. “My folks say he’s been trying to kill me since the day I was born.” He shrugged as if it were no biggie. “I figure if he really wanted to kill me, he would’ve succeeded by now.”
I laughed because Beau did.
Then I saw Dad leaning over the railing, waving down at me. Or at me and Beau. “Hey, guys!” he called.
“Hay is for horses,” Beau called back. Dad laughed at that corny old line.
I started to climb out of the pool, but Dad put his hand up to stop me and said, “I’ll just change and be right down.”
This would be a good time for Beau to get lost, I thought. I’d been here for hours and still hadn’t really seen my dad alone. But if Dad was bringing Cora down to the pool with him, it wouldn’t matter whether Beau was gone or not. I clenched my fists, imagining a whole week with eyebrowless Cora. Liz may have hated Dad’s girlfriend last year, but I thought Cora, with her key to Dad’s apartment, and the way she planted herself down as if she owned the place, was way worse than Bobbie.
Dad came down—alone, thank goodness—wearing mirrored sunglasses and a robe over his bathing suit, looking like Mr. Hollywood. He was loaded with supplies: a drink with clinking ice, a newspaper, his cell phone. He scraped a chair over to one of the umbrellas and sat down. “How’s the water?” he asked.
“Great!” I answered. “Come on in!”
“Maybe later,” Dad said, dialing his phone.
“Liar!” Beau teased. Then he told me, “He’s never put a toe in here. Not one toe!”
My face got hot. I didn’t know my own father doesn’t swim, but Beau did. Same as he knew what cable stations Dad got and that there wasn’t anything in his fridge. And this Beau kid just called my dad a liar without batting an eye!
I was suddenly sick of swimming, but what was I supposed to do? Go sit under the umbrella with Dad? Go upstairs and hang around watching Cora chew gum? I sat on the edge of the pool.
“Race you with one arm and one leg,” Beau offered.
“Nah, I’m just gonna sit awhile.”
“You okay? You breathing okay?” Beau asked.
He knew about my asthma? My father had told this complete stranger about my asthma? I seethed with sudden hatred. I hated Beau. I wished his brother had drowned him.
“We’ve gotta go pretty soon,” Dad called over to me—or to us; I couldn’t tell.
“Go where?” I asked, hoping he meant just him and me.
“Cora’s sister invited us to her birthday barbecue,” Dad said. “Supposed to be there sixish.”
I sighed. Cora. Why had I thought this trip would be any different than the rest? They’d all been nonstop busy, with some girlfriend always around.
I wished my sister was here. By now she would’ve grilled Cora and Beau and we’d know exactly how they fit into Dad’s life. She’d also know that I felt like spit and she’d kid me out of it.
I remembered the plane ride home from our visit last year. When I’d said, “But we never really saw him,” Liz had answered, “Phantom Father! Tune in next summer as the mystery continues!” And she had pulled her blanket up around her face like a Dracula cape.
chapter three
Beau hauled himself out of the pool and grabbed his towel. “When are you gonna be back?” he asked.
Dad shrugged. “Late, probably.”
Beau nodded, and I hated him a little less because he-wasn’t coming with us. He pointed a foot at me and said, “So, what are you doing tomorrow?”
I looked at Dad.
“I’ll be in meetings all morning,” Dad said. “I guess you guys could go to the beach or something.”
By ourselves? I wondered. Just me and Beau? I could picture the expression on my mom’s face.
Beau sprawled on a lounge chair with his towel over his head, and Dad gathered up all his stuff and led me upstairs. Cora wasn’t in the apartment, and I was glad. Now maybe Dad and I could…do whatever it is boys and their dads do. Talk? Play chess? Tell dirty jokes?
Then Dad turned on the TV and his computer. I’d forgotten that he does that. Liz used to say that Dad surrounded himself with monitors so he could bask in their glow. That was back when she was calling him “Dr. Raaay from Outer Spaaace.”
It’s true that it’s impossible to imagine Dad living in a prescreen era, like the Old West or ancient Egypt. But computers are his work, so he’s supposed to care about them. And I think he just liked the television on all the time for company.
I guess my company wasn’t enough.
I stood around feeling odd and goose-bumpy. I wondered if Dad felt at all shy or whatever too. But I decided that idea made precisely zero sense.
“Here’s your room, Big Guy,” he called from the doorway to the guest room. He tossed me a towel.
I took a long, long shower. Then I admitted to myself that I was kind of hiding, and I got out. I unpacked my junk and got dressed. Then I stood around. I hated feeling so stiff! I’d been dying to come here. Dying to get out of my all-girl house. My mom, my sister—even my dog, Ditz, was a girl!
Ditz. If she were here, she’d put her head in my lap and look at me with those big eyes of hers, her wagging tail banging into everything.
This is stupid! I thought. Here I am in Dad’s bachelor apartment with Dad—who thinks I’m old enough to go to the beach by myself—and I’m wishing I were with Ditz?
I walked out of the room and said, “Hey, Dad.”
He smiled back. “Hey, Big Guy.”
“So what’s the story with Cora and Beau?” I asked, casual, cool.
Dad started to answer but the phone rang. I sat down in front of the TV while he talked. It was one of those shows where contestants scream their heads off and try to see who can act like a bigger jerk. One guy was balancing stuff on his head, including some yellow slime that glopped him when it fell. I hoped it wasn’t my dad’s favorite program.
Dad hung up. “We’re outta here!” he said, grabbing his wallet, keys, and beeper. “Cora will be in a lather if we’re late.”
But when we got to Cora’s, she wasn’t even ready. Her apartment was girly, with breakable stuff all over the place. I sank into her flowery couch and almost drowned in cushions. Dad chose a more reasonable chair. He picked up a magazine and flicked through the pages, his foot tapping.
My eyes started to itch, then water. I sneezed. Sneezed again. “Dad?” I said. “Does Cora have a cat?”
“Four,” he said without looking up.
The thing about allergies and asthma is, after you’ve had a few attacks, you start to panic at the idea of an attack. At least I do. I mean, just looking at a picture of a cat can make me wheezy. I got up and said, “I’m gonna wait outside.”
Dad followed me out the door. “Sorry, Big Guy,” he said. “I forgot.”
“That’s okay,” I said, embarrassed. I felt my pockets. Dang! I’d forgotten my inhaler! If a picture of a cat can make me wheezy, knowing I don’t have my inhaler can make it ten time
s worse.
I told myself to calm down. I’d been in that cat house only a couple of minutes. Maybe I didn’t need the inhaler. I breathed in, out. All was well.
Four? I thought. Why would a person need four cats?
My dad—who’d never wheezed a wheeze, who’d probably never even had a cold—was looking down, way down, at his short weakling of a son, with an expression of…what? Pity?
“Really, Dad,” I said, doing my best to smile. “I’m fine.”
Cora came out and Dad said, “Some father I am, eh? I forgot than John’s allergic to cats.”
“I’m fine,” I said again.
Cora nodded at me. Then, taking Dad’s arm, she smiled up all lovey-dovey at him, and said, “John’s perfectly fine and you’re a perfectly wonderful father. Now, let’s go!”
She had lipstick on one of her front teeth.
Back home a barbecue means ribs or burgers—or chicken, at least—and corn or potatoes. Not this one. This one meant tiny snacks being whisked over my head by waitresses wearing matching T-shirts. At first, Dad introduced me to people. Then he got involved in conversations and I was left standing around feeling awkward and hungry.
One lady tried to entertain me with dumb questions like, How’d I like California, and Had I seen any movie stars yet?
Two people asked me if I knew Iris. Last year, some friend of Dad’s thought it was hilarious that Liz and I didn’t know a Santa Ana was a wind. In California they name the wind and expect everyone else to know that. I figured Iris was another California in-joke. So I just smiled—the dolt son from Kansas who doesn’t even know what Iris is!
Then a woman grabbed my hand, saying, “You’ll be bored to death out here with us old fogies.” She dragged me indoors.
It turned out Iris was an actual girl, and we found her in the kitchen, looking guilty. But the woman who dragged me there didn’t notice. “Iris, this is Matt’s son, John,” she said. “Here all the way from Kansas!”
Iris half-smiled. Her mouth was full, and she was hiding her hands behind her back. She was taller than me. Not much, but still.
The woman walked away.
After Iris swallowed, she said, “And your little dog Toto too?”
That was another California thing. All they knew about Kansas was that Dorothy came from there in The Wizard of Oz.
“Actually, my dog’s name is Ditz,” I said.
“Ditz? As in, Boy, is she a ditz?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a ditzy name.” She giggled. “But my hamster’s name is Puff Ball, so maybe I shouldn’t judge.”
“What were you doing?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“When we came in.”
Iris giggled again, then showed me her hands, sticky red with goo. “Caught me red-handed!” she howled. “I hate the powder on the outside.” Then I noticed the mess next to her. She’d been squeezing the jelly out of the little doughnuts on the dessert tray.
“Powdered sugar makes me sneeze,” I agreed. “It’s like sweet dust.”
She handed me one. I looked around. “Don’t worry, we won’t get in trouble,” Iris said. “I live here.”
So I sucked the jelly out of the doughnut the way she did. Not bad. Then she asked if I wanted to see the new Mac she’d gotten for her birthday. I asked when her birthday was and she said, “Last Thursday. I’m a Leo. What are you?”
I couldn’t remember.
Iris rolled her eyes. “Well, when’s your birthday?” she asked. “We can look it up.”
“May,” I told her.
“I think that’s Gemini,” she said, leading me to her room. “How old are you?”
I wanted to say fourteen, but I figured she wouldn’t believe me. “Twelve,” I admitted to her back.
“Me too,” she said. And I breathed with relief.
Iris turned on her computer and talked constantly while searching for a game we both liked. I sneaked peeks at her room. I hadn’t been in a girl’s bedroom, beside my sister’s, since I was a little kid. But Iris’s room didn’t reveal any girl secrets. It was pretty much a regular room except for the stuffed animals.
Then Iris stopped talking and leaned closer to me. For a split second I thought she was going to kiss me! I held my breath. But then she just whispered, “So what’s the inside scoop? Is your dad serious about Aunt Cora?”
“Sh-she’s your aunt?” I stammered, caught off guard. Then realized, Duh, Dad said we were going to Cora’s sister’s barbecue, so Iris was Cora’s sister’s kid.
“Does that mean yes or no?”
“Huh?”
“Well, is he going to propose or what?”
The meaning of her words finally dawned on me. “Propose marriage?” I asked.
“Oh,” Iris said. “I guess that means no.”
“No, it doesn’t—I mean, not necessarily.”
“You’re being shady,” Iris said. “I don’t like that in a person.” She crossed her arms, poked out her lower lip, and pretended to pout.
I didn’t want to tell this girl that I had no idea what my dad planned to do about her aunt Cora or anything else. Iris probably thought normal sons know these things about their fathers. That fathers and sons talk about stuff.
Iris squinted at me. “Are you sworn to secrecy?”
I shrugged.
“Aha! You’re honor-bound by your word. Sticking to your promise, even under torture. I like that in a person!”
Eventually, Dad and Cora found me and said it was time to head out. I wondered if I’d see Iris again. I liked her—even though her good-bye was “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!”
By the time we’d dropped Cora back at her apartment, and gotten stuck in traffic (it’s always rush hour in L.A.), and climbed the stairs to number 216, I could barely keep my eyes open. I went to the guest room and crashed. One day down, six to go.
chapter four
“Morning, Big Guy,” Dad said when I stumbled into the kitchen the next day. “Hungry?”
He was drenched, his T-shirt stuck to him. A drop of sweat hung off the tip of his nose.
“You still run every day?” I asked.
“Five miles, rain or shine,” he said, opening the fridge. “Let’s see, we’ve got eggs and we’ve got eggs. Or, you could have a couple of eggs. What do you think?”
I smiled. “I think I’ll have eggs.”
“Good choice,” Dad said, and began cracking and cooking. “I’ve got a nine o’clock,” he said, “that should be done by ten-thirty, eleven at the latest. And a…” He leaned over and peered down at his planner. “Oh,” he said, “a one-thirty that could run to, say, three. Maybe I can stop by here in between, depending. You going to be all right till maybe fourish?”
I was stumped. Be all right doing what? Sitting here in the apartment for seven and a half hours?
“Sure,” I said anyway.
“You’ve got my pager number and Cora’s number and a key over there by the phone. Oh, and the combination for the outside door is thirty-three, twelve, nineteen.”
I looked around for a pen. “Thirty-three what?”
He repeated it. Then he had to repeat it again because the pen didn’t work.
“Not much to eat in the house, I’m afraid,” Dad said. “But there are restaurants up on Grand.”
I had no idea where Grand was. I’d never even been in this neighborhood before. “Well,” I said, trying to sound calm, “there’s always eggs.”
“Over easy—the way you like them,” he said proudly, placing my plate in front of me.
No, I thought, that’s Liz. I’m the one who likes them scrambled dry.
“Aren’t you having any?” I asked.
“I’ll pick up something on the way,” Dad said, heading for the bathroom. Soon I heard him singing in the shower.
I ate my eggs, or Liz’s eggs, looking around, imagining myself there all day. The only magazines Dad got were Forbes and Business Week. I knew I’d go into a coma of boredom read
ing them. There was also TV. One in the kitchen, a bigger one in the living room. Probably one in Dad’s bedroom too.
The phone rang. I wondered if I should answer. Then I thought, I’m his son! Sons answer their fathers’ phones! I’d never think twice about answering Mom’s.
“Who’s this?” the voice asked.
“This is John. Matt’s son,” I said.
“No kidding! I didn’t even know he had a son!”
What could I say to that?
“Well,” the voice went on, “your dad around?”
“He’s in the shower.”
“Tell him Chris called, okay?”
I hoped Chris wasn’t a good friend.
And then, in a rush of sports jacket and briefcase, Dad was gone and it was very, very quiet.
It’s not like I was never in the house alone at home. Mom worked. My sister, especially since she’d met Jet, was out all the time. But at home—well, I was home! I had my stuff. I had my life. There was Ditz. There was food in the fridge.
Dad always had a million appointments and meetings, but Liz had been with me all the other visits, and she’s four years older. Well, I thought, time to grow up! I hated it that my mom babied me so much at home, so I should be thrilled now, right?
The first thing I did was try to go back to bed, but my eyes wouldn’t close. So I got dressed and started poking around the guest room. My friend Theo had divorced parents, but he didn’t call his room in either of their houses a “guest” room.
Nothing in the drawers but some Kleenex and a few pens.
Bathroom next. Wow, Dad sure uses a lot of hair stuff. What was this? I unscrewed a cap and sniffed. Dad! It was my father—in a bottle! Oops. I must’ve jumped because now I’d spilled Dad on my hand, my leg, the floor. As I wiped it up with great wads of toilet paper, I laughed at my own stupidity. Of course that dad-smell was some kind of cologne. Had I thought he smelled like that naturally? That his sweat smelled like that?
Stranger in Dadland Page 2