by Noah Bly
“Well, don’t just stand there.” I step back and wave him in. “Welcome home, son.”
On the night he turned sixteen, Paul wandered into the kitchen, long after Jeremy and Caitlin had gone to bed. Arthur was out of town on tour, and Paul, who’d spent the bulk of the evening practicing in the music room with the new—and ludicrously expensive—Hill and Sons cello bow we’d bought him for his birthday, took a break around midnight and came to find me as I was finally getting around to cleaning up the supper things in the sink.
“Want help?”
“Of course.”
I washed and he dried, and we had the radio on as we worked. It was semi-dark in the kitchen, with the only light in the room coming from the shaded bulb over the window above the sink. The station we were listening to was playing a Boccherini symphony, and Paul snorted after a few minutes and growled, “Is this stupid piece ever going to end?”
I rewarded him with an approving smile. His intolerance for dull music was beginning to rival mine.
“Soon.” I rinsed suds from a plate and handed it to him. “But first there will be a fatuous deceptive cadence, followed by an insipid coda, and then—assuming the orchestra is still alive, of course—there will be a flourish in the violins, announcing the arrival of the last three utterly predictable chords: tonic-six, dominant, tonic.”
I rubbed my chin on my shoulder. “It just occurred to me that Boccherini has almost certainly been reincarnated as Barry Manilow. Someone in authority should be notified, don’t you think?”
He grinned. “So why are we still listening to this?”
“Good question. The sad truth is I was too lazy to change the station, but please do so at once.”
“Nah.” His smile widened. “I want to hear you rip apart the next piece they play, too.” He handed the plate back. “You missed a spot.”
I grunted. “The imbeciles who run classical music stations could be giving air time to Brahms or Stravinsky, and instead they choose Luigi Boccherini. It’s enough to make you want to open your wrists in the bathtub.”
He shook his head in mock disapproval. “You’re a snob, Mom.”
“Of course I am. The only people worth knowing are snobs, dear.” I pause to look down my nose at him. “Incidentally, if you’re not a full-fledged snob by the time you’re an adult, I intend to disown you.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t worry. With you and Dad as my role models, what are the chances I’ll be anything else?”
I chuckled. “Good point.”
We worked for a while in companionable silence, then I remembered something and glanced over my shoulder at the table. “I see you received a letter from the admissions office at Yale today.”
Paul was due to graduate high school a year early, and colleges and universities around the country were already beginning to court him.
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I don’t want to go there. It’s too far away.”
We had been arguing for months about what schools he should apply to for his undergraduate degree. He wanted to stay in Bolton and take lessons at Carson with the same cello teacher he’d had for the last four years (Martin Duvitsky, a talented pedagogue—and, alas, a second-rate performer), but Arthur and I both believed his career would best be served by placing him with a well-known teacher in a larger city. I didn’t want another disagreement that night, but his stubbornness about staying in Bolton at all costs was starting to annoy me.
I pretended to return my attention to my hands in the soapy water. “Yale is close to where I grew up, you know. You might actually like New England if you gave it half a chance.”
He wasn’t fooled by my attempt at nonchalance. An edge worked its way into his voice. “I said I don’t want to, Mom, okay?”
I darted a look at his handsome face. “Don’t pout, Paul. I was just making a suggestion.”
“I’m not pouting, I’m pissed off. There’s a difference.” He tipped his chin down in the same way I do when I’m irritated. “And I’m only pissed off because it’s a shitty suggestion. What’s wrong with me wanting to stay here in Bolton and go to the Conservatory? Are you that anxious to get rid of me?”
“Right at this moment, you mean?”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
I put a damp hand on his wrist. “If I thought Carson Conservatory was the best place for you to go to college, I’d tie you to the radiator to keep you from leaving, even if you wanted to go someplace else. But it isn’t the best place for you, so …”
He made a face. “That’s fucked up. What about what I want? It’s my life.”
“Your vocabulary is getting much too colorful for my taste.” I let go of him. “It’s your father’s fault. He’s been swearing around you children ever since you were born.”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
I put the last pile of silverware in the dish drainer and pulled the plug in the sink, then I took the towel from him when he was through with it and dried my hands.
“I’m sorry to sound like a cliché, son, but it’s my responsibility to make decisions for you until you’re old enough to make them for yourself.”
“I’m not five, Mom, I’m sixteen.” He leaned against the counter. “As of today. Remember? I’m not a little kid anymore.”
I studied him. He was taller than me by a good six inches, and all the baby fat had long since left his face. His eyes were passionate and bright, like Arthur’s, and his shoulders and chest were filling out daily, so fast I could almost see it happening. The peach fuzz on his face was also getting noticeably darker.
He was right. He wasn’t a child anymore. But he was wrong, too, because when it came to making crucial decisions about his future, he was still very much an infant.
I walked over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey and two glasses. He eyed me with distrust as I poured us each a double shot and gestured for him to sit across from me at the kitchen table. He hesitated for a moment before acquiescing.
“Your father would kill me if he knew I was doing this with you.” I pushed a glass in front of him.
He stared at me. “You’re not serious. You want me to drink this?”
His voice, too, was now a young man’s, and it still startled me sometimes to hear how deep and husky it had gotten. Just a few short months ago people used to mistake him for me on the phone.
I smiled. “We’re having a drink together to celebrate your birthday. You’re old enough that a shot or two of whiskey won’t kill you.” I looked into his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten drunk with your friends before.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t. I tried a beer at Tony’s one time but I didn’t like it.” He blushed a little. “I poured it out when I went to the bathroom.”
He saw I didn’t believe him and got exasperated with me. “Honest to God, Mom. I’m telling the truth. Besides that crappy white wine you let me taste last Christmas I’ve never had anything else to drink.”
I blinked. “I see. Good for you.” I cleared my throat. “Well. This isn’t beer or wine. In truth, you probably won’t like it, either, but it’s far more efficient.” I raised my glass to him. “Cheers, my love. And happy birthday.”
He didn’t lift his glass. “Why are we doing this? What are you up to?”
I shrugged. “No reason, really. I just want to acknowledge that you’re getting older, as you said.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth the way he always does when he’s thinking. “So is this your way of saying that you’ll stop bugging me about where I want to go to school?”
“Absolutely not. It just means you’re getting older. Now shut up and drink your whiskey like a good boy.”
He looked away and sighed. “Figures.”
I kept my arm in the air. “My shoulder is getting rather tired, dear.”
After a long moment he finally raised his glass, too, and clinked it against mine.
“Whatever,” he mumbled. “I guess I’
ll take what I can get.”
“Some joker’s been urinating on St. Booger.” Paul steps through the door and storms past me. He makes a beeline for the living room, impaling Alex with a glare on the way.
I close the door and lean against it. “Stray dogs have always treated poor old Booger abominably.” I raise my eyebrows at Alex and he flushes. “I believe they see him as a fire hydrant with legs.”
Paul reaches the fireplace and turns so his back is to the blaze. “If that’s the case, then there’s a mutt running around the neighborhood who knows the alphabet.” He takes off his black ulster overcoat and tosses it over the arm of one of the chairs. “The letters ‘c’ through ‘f’ are scribbled in piss in the snow covering Booger’s feet.”
Alex kicks at the rug and mouths the word “sorry” at me.
I push off from the door and gesture for him to follow me into the living room. He trails along behind me, and when I sit in my chair he stands at my side like an overly attentive waiter. Paul eyes him with ill-humor, and Alex studies the floor.
“So.” I break the silence with a cold syllable. “What did you want to speak with me about, Paul?”
He crosses his arms and rests them on his substantial paunch. He gives Alex yet another black look, then drops his gaze to my face. “We need to discuss this in private, Mother, don’t you think?”
Alex makes a small noise and turns to leave.
I catch his wrist, and I’m amazed at how warm his skin is. He must have an oven for a heart. My own fingers are freezing.
“Stay put, dear.” I look into his pale, expressive face. “Please.”
His eyes dart to Paul and then back to me. He’s terribly uncomfortable, but after a minute he favors me with a feeble attempt at a smile, then nods.
I release him and turn back to Paul. “Alex is fine right where he is, son. He lives here, unlike someone else I could name.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Paul snaps. “Stop being so goddamn childish. I’ve come to see you about a personal family matter, and this … this barefoot street urchin you’ve taken in has absolutely no business hearing any of it.”
I sigh. “I don’t think you’re going to say anything Alex hasn’t already heard from your unconscionably rude father.” I pull at my ear. “For instance, you’re going to tell me that this house doesn’t legally belong to me, right?” I stress the word “legally” in an imitation of Paul’s pompous tone. “And I had absolutely no right to rent the attic apartment to Alex, and therefore I’m a horrible person.”
I bestow a pleasant smile on him. “How am I doing?”
He bares his tobacco-stained teeth. “You’re a mind reader. But you left some things out, too.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“Oh, no?” He leans forward and the floor creaks. “For starters, how about the wanton destruction of Dad’s table?”
“Good God.” I yawn. “Not that again.”
“That table was worth a fortune, not to mention the sentimental value it had for Dad.”
I roll my eyes. “As I said to Arthur, it was an accident. How many times must I apologize for that?”
“A few thousand, I should imagine,” he says dryly. “But never mind. In retrospect, that’s the least of your transgressions.”
“Oh? And what else have I done?”
He sucks on his front teeth. “You started a ridiculous rumor about me at the Conservatory.”
I cross my legs and drum my fingers on my kneecap. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did. And you owe me an apology for it.”
“Now who’s being childish?”
He picks something invisible from the sleeve of his bulky sweater. “You told the dean the reason I was late to one of my students’ lessons this semester was because I was hungover.”
“Oh, dear.” I sigh again. “Well, you were hungover, son. I saw you that morning, remember? Your breath smelled like the punchbowl at a frat party.” I settle back in my chair. “Or possibly the toilet bowl. Take your pick.”
Alex stirs, and when I glance up at him he’s covering his mouth in a fake cough, trying not to laugh.
Paul shakes a warning finger at him. “You shut up.” He faces me again after a moment. “Control your pet poodle, Mother, or I’ll toss him out on the street.”
The threat is real. I know my son, and I know what he’s capable of. I clear my throat. “You’ll do no such thing, Paul. And by the way, I didn’t speak to the dean of my own volition. She came to me.”
He snorts. “You don’t play the innocent very well, Mother. You couldn’t wait to tell her, could you? You probably scampered down the hall to her office immediately after speaking to me.”
“I’m getting bored with this, darling. The only reason I knew you’d been drinking was because you’ve always been indifferent to proper oral hygiene, and that’s hardly my fault. If you’d bothered to brush your teeth before coming to work, I might never have known.” I straighten the striped arm covering on my chair. “Now do you have anything else to call me on the carpet for, or may I go take a nap?”
His breathing gets louder. “How about the juvenile things you’ve been saying at the Conservatory about Dad and Martha?”
“What things, dear? Why would I waste my time talking about those two overfed lovebirds?”
He tugs at his tangled beard. “I heard two of your students laughing uproariously in the hallway last week.” His voice goes flat. “One of them said you’d told her that Martha had gone in for emergency liposuction, but the doctor slipped during surgery and accidentally removed Dad’s penis instead.”
Alex makes a choking sound.
Paul’s head snaps up and his face turns a frightening shade of red. “So you think this is funny, punk?” He lurches forward and Alex backs away from him in a panic.
I throw up a warning hand. “Paul!”
He ignores me and keeps moving toward Alex.
I slam my fist down on the coffee table beside my chair and both of them jump. Alex uses the opportunity to slip behind me, and Paul’s eyes flick back and forth between us.
“How predictable,” I murmur into the charged stillness.
Paul focuses on me and some of the color leaves his puffy cheeks and forehead. “What are you talking about?” he grates.
“You’ve always been a coward, my love. Even as a child, you only dared to bully the people who posed no threat to you.”
He rears back, stung, which is what I intended. I want his rage directed where it belongs.
I look over my shoulder at Alex. “I apologize for my son, dear. You’d better go upstairs before he loses control and proves himself to be a barbarian.”
I expect him to bolt for the stairs, but he surprises me by hesitating. “Are you sure?” he whispers.
“Get out of here,” Paul rasps. “Right now.”
Alex doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even look at Paul.
Well, well. It seems as if my sweet young tenant has more of a spine than I gave him credit for.
“I’ll be fine, Alex,” I murmur. “Jabba the Hutt will be leaving shortly.”
“Charming, Mother,” Paul spits.
Alex waits another moment, then nods. “Okay. But give a yell if you need me.”
Paul sniggers, but Alex ignores him. I turn to face Paul again and Alex exits the room. A second later I hear him running lightly up the stairs to his apartment.
Paul sneers and steps back to the fire. “How nice. You’ve made a friend. Too bad he’ll be moving out so soon.”
I refuse to let him rile me further. “I think it’s time for you to go home, Paul. I have nothing else to say to you.”
His face freezes. “That’s strange, because I have so much more to say to you.”
“I’m afraid it will have to wait.” The flames in the fireplace behind him are beginning to die. “There’s a limit to how many ugly confrontations I’ll have with a family member in this room, this month. By the way, is Caitlin planning an
assault, too? If she is, tell her to call ahead, would you? I’m booked solid until next August.”
He shrugs, impatient. “As you well know, I have no idea what Caitlin’s doing. We never speak.” He pauses, and his voice changes ever so slightly. “But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s probably out looking for a leper to chastise.”
When he was younger, a running joke between us was Caitlin’s legendary impatience with other people’s problems.
I nod, unable to stop myself from participating. “Indeed. The last time I saw her, she’d just finished browbeating a quadriplegic about the evils of a sedentary lifestyle.”
He nearly smiles, and for the briefest instance, our eyes meet without animosity. I can’t even remember the last time that happened. But as soon as he realizes we’re not being hateful to each other any longer, his face ices over.
He bends to snatch up his coat from the other chair. “Fine, I’ll go,” he rumbles. “But before I do, I’m giving you fair warning that you’d better get that kid out of here.” He shakes his head. “Jesus. I’m surprised you haven’t already got him wearing Jeremy’s old clothes.”
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
He glowers. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
In truth, I don’t have any idea what he means. Is he comparing Alex to Jeremy? The two of them are nothing alike.
“Hush, now. You’re giving me a headache.” I point over my shoulder. “Do show yourself out, will you, dear?” I lift my head. “And don’t bother coming back anytime soon.”
We gaze at each other with mutual belligerence for a minute, then he barrels out of the room without saying another word. The door slams behind him a few seconds later, and I close my eyes until I hear his car roar out of the driveway.
I get to the landing on the third floor, and after catching my breath I call up to the attic apartment. “Alex? It’s safe to come out of hiding.”
I hear a chair scrape on the floor in his kitchen, then a few seconds later he appears at the top of the stairs, looking a bit flustered. “Are you all right?”