“Nothing,” I mutter and choke down my feelings. He shrugs and turns his attention back to the road and I think I have got to get off this ride.
Later we’re in Chris’s kitchen with Paloma, rolling up cold cuts for a tray, when Chris pokes his finger through one of the slices of cheese and cracks up laughing. Paloma shakes her head at us like we’re immature imbeciles. She’s right.
I grin along with him while wondering if he has some sort of brain damage that allows him the selective memory, where our bodies pressed together under his covers for what felt like an eternity doesn’t even register. I have to admit, it’s pretty damn frustrating.
The doorbell rings, and Chris washes his hands to go get the door. I hear the clack-clack of my sister’s sandals and her voice carrying through the entryway, which suddenly dies when she enters the kitchen and sees me there.
“What are you doing here?” she asks with a pissy look on her face, hands planted on her hips. I haven’t seen her since dinner last night with our dad.
“You told me you wanted me to help. Something about my lazy ass had better be here or I was doing cleanup on my own.”
“Dad’s pissed at you,” she says, like I don’t already know it. Her eyes narrow and her mouth puckers like she’s warming up for a verbal spar. If she’s looking for a fight, I know already I’m going to lose. Tabitha fights dirty.
Paloma announces that she needs to go check on the laundry and disappears. Chris retreats to the egg-peeling station and turns his back on us, excusing himself from the conversation. I really don’t want to have it out with my sister in his kitchen, but knowing Tabs, there’s no way around it.
“I got that impression,” I tell her. “The whole trust fund threat.”
“You were a total asshole last night.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. She usually takes Dad’s side.
“Was I the asshole?” I couldn’t have been the only one.
“You could have at least tried. He just wants to know what’s going on with you. Riling you up is the only way to get you to talk. Mom didn’t even know you weren’t playing soccer this year. Or me. Chris is the only person you talk to.” At this she shoots an accusing look at Chris’s back, and I want nothing more than for her to leave him the hell out of it.
I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. De-escalation is the name of the game with my sister, but she doesn’t let up to give me the floor.
“And then you totally ditched us without saying anything. Dad was so pissed, Theo, and I had to deal with it. It makes me look bad, too, when you do stuff like that. He spent the rest of the night talking about how ungrateful and spoiled you are and how it’s Mom’s fault you don’t have any manners.”
“That’s bullshit, Tabs.”
“And what about the car?” she goes on as if I didn’t say anything. “We could have had the Range Rover, but no, you’ve got to prove some stupid point about how you don’t need anyone or anything. And screw things up for me too.”
“He’ll give it to you when you get your license.”
“No, he won’t, Theo. He won’t give it to me because I’m not you. He never asks me to do stuff unless you’re there. He never came to one of my dance competitions, but he went to a ton of your soccer games. You’re not the one on Facebook, liking all of Susan’s stupid pictures of Ellie or babysitting or picking out baby clothes. It’s me. And you’re still the one he wants. It’s not fair.”
She stomps her foot like a child and pivots away from me. I feel bad because what she says is partly true… maybe. And even if it isn’t, it’s sad as hell that’s how she sees it, unloved by our dad even more because she’s a girl.
“I’m sorry for ditching you, Tabs. If it makes you feel better, I’m a total disappointment as a son.”
She sniffs and rubs at her eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re a total disappointment as a brother too.”
“Tabitha,” Chris warns.
The insults that hurt the worst are the ones that ring true. I don’t see how we can recover from this for the time being, and I’m not going to cower in the corner like a kicked dog because of some bullshit my dad pulled. I yank off my apron and toss it on the counter, rub my hands on my shorts.
“Theo, don’t,” Chris says, letting his demand float there between us.
“Tell Paloma I’ll do cleanup.” I head for the door while thinking that’s one more thing my dad and I have in common: we both bail when things get tough.
I GRAB my skateboard and consider going over to Dave’s, but I don’t want to use him as a stand-in, which makes Dave just another one of the people I’ve disappointed lately. I zone out to the steady rhythm of my skateboard on the concrete while thinking on the people closest to me and how I can’t seem to give them what they want. And my dad. How I wish I could believe what my sister says, that he wants a relationship with me, even if it’s not the kind of relationship I want. Maybe he is trying. What is it about me that I have to have things on my own terms? All or nothing. Like Chris. I should be happy with this awesome best friendship we share, but I’m not. Maybe Tabs is right; maybe I am selfish.
When I finally come out of my stupor, I find myself on the corner of Palmetto and Lake Avenue, the block where Saint Ann’s is located, which is where my Uncle Theo lives. Impulsively, I decide to follow up on my earlier commitment to myself and pay him a visit.
I roll up to the double glass doors on my skateboard and tuck it under my arm. The lady at the reception desk asks me, like, five times who I am and who I’m here to see. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe me or thinks I have some nefarious motive, which is sad that anyone would come to an old folks’ home with bad intentions, so I show her my permit to prove I am indeed Theodore Wooten III, related to TW II. She apologizes and remarks that Uncle Theo doesn’t have too many visitors, which prompts me to ask her when the last time someone’s stopped by to see him, and she answers that she can’t remember, which means it was probably the last time I saw him, Easter.
Apparently Tabs and I aren’t the only ones my father is neglecting.
I make up my mind that if I can stand the salty old bastard for the next hour or so, I’ll make it a point to visit him more often. The receptionist tells me he’s likely upstairs in the rec room playing solitaire, and it kind of depresses me to find out when I get up there that she’s right.
The rec room smells like old people and polyester with a hint of urine, but the place is pretty clean overall and bright, thanks to the row of windows overlooking the water. A room with a view. I suppose when you’re this close to the other side, that’s all any of us can hope for. Uncle Theo was in the Navy for, like, thirty years and worked as an engineer on cruise ships after that, so he had a pretty good retirement package after his life at sea, plus the Wooten Family Trust fund, that mythical creature my dad and grandmother both reference when I show the slightest indication of not having my shit together.
Still, it must be costing him or my grandmother a pretty penny to keep him in a place as nice as this. I suppose that almost makes up for the fact that he has no one visiting him.
There are a couple of nurses and a few elderly folks milling around, some of them with walkers and others propped up in wheelchairs, half-comotose. Uncle Theo sits by himself at a round card table. He’s got good posture for an old man, maybe because he was once military and the mannerisms stuck. His white hair is neatly combed and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and slacks, which sets him apart from the other residents, some of whom wear housedresses, the men included. I wonder if he has any friends in here, people he can talk to who are at least as lucid as he is. I hope so.
I watch as he methodically sets up another round of solitaire, carefully placing the cards so that the edges line up with a uniformity that reminds me of myself. I also like things to be tidy. His face is a scowl, or maybe it’s just the weight of eighty-plus years wrinkling up his mouth. Regardless, he doesn’t look happy to see me when he lifts his blue eyes, which are the Woo
ten trademark and the reason my mother, presumably, fell in love with a gringo.
“Who are you?” he barks like a naval captain, which he was and, I suppose, still is. I take up the chair across from where he sits and lay my skateboard across my lap.
“I’m Theodore Wooten the third,” I tell him, hoping that will spark some recognition.
“Huh,” he grumbles, then flips a card and says, “pretty dark for a Wooten.”
I smile at that. Maybe I should be offended, but I find it kind of hilarious. “Yeah, my mom’s Puerto Rican. Your nephew had a thing for island girls, I guess.”
Uncle Theo nods like that makes perfect sense. “If you’re looking for money, I don’t got it.”
I shake my head at that. Maybe that’s what the receptionist was worried about, like I’d come up here and shake down my elderly, senile uncle. I wonder if that’s a thing. Sad.
“I didn’t come for money,” I tell him. “I’ve got a job.”
“Good for you. So what do you want?”
I shrug and glance down at his cards. I didn’t think much about what we would talk about. We got along well at the Easter party, but there were a lot of distractions. This is just him and me in a room that smells like death. “Thought you might be up for a game of gin rummy.”
He scoffs at that. “You look like a shifty sonuvabitch to me.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t believe his mouth. “You don’t look all that honest yourself.”
Uncle Theo grins or grimaces, it’s hard to tell. “You don’t win at cards by being a schmuck.”
I nod. “That’s true.” A nurse comes over then, a woman in her mid-forties, and asks my uncle who his visitor is. (Me.) My uncle shrugs and won’t answer her, so I introduce myself. Her name is Gloria, and she has an accent. I ask her where she’s from, and she says Trinidad. She asks me if I’d like some water, and I tell her I would, thank you, that I skateboarded here and I’m a little thirsty. She smiles like I’m an upstanding citizen and a good nephew for visiting my uncle in the old folks’ home. As soon as she walks away, my uncle leans in and says, “Now there’s a dark one.”
I wonder if there’s some reason for his racism or if it’s just residual, something he acquired at an early age, like my distaste for asparagus. Uncle Theo lived in a condo in Palm Beach during his later years, golfing and boozing it up at the country club with the other old, white dudes. He also never married, though I vaguely remember a couple of live-in girlfriends, all white women.
“Do the white nurses take better care of you?” I ask.
“No,” he admits. “They’re all cocksuckers here.”
I’m glad he at least has the good sense to keep his voice down. Gloria comes back with paper cups of water for both of us, even though my uncle didn’t want any. I thank her and my uncle only frowns and says, “Where’s Manuel?”
Gloria smiles knowingly and checks her wristwatch. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Is there anything I can get you before then?”
“No, but make sure he’s here,” he says gruffly.
Gloria nods and smiles at me like I’m in on some inside joke. She rests her hand on his shoulder in a gesture that seems genuinely affectionate. “I will do that, Captain Wooten.”
Captain Wooten. My uncle is with it enough to demand they use his proper title. And who is this Manuel? A fellow patient, a veteran like my uncle? Perhaps they have a standing card game in the rec room. My uncle didn’t seem like he was looking forward to it, exactly, but it clearly matters to him that this Manuel character shows up.
“Who’s Manuel?” I ask him when Gloria walks away.
“None of your damn business. You got any food on you?”
I wonder if he remembers how we bonded over Paula’s Pit Barbecue potato salad. “No, but I’ll bring you something next time.”
“The chow here is terrible.”
I don’t doubt it. It’s probably all tasteless and soft, like salty baby food. “Have you seen my dad lately?”
“Who’s your dad?”
“Your nephew, William.”
“William?” Uncle Theo’s eyes squint a little like he’s trying to place him. “No. Haven’t seen him. He still do teeth?”
I smile at the way he says it. “Yeah, he still does teeth. I haven’t seen much of him lately either. His wife, Susan, is pregnant. It’s a boy. They’re naming him William. That’d make him William the fourth, I guess.”
“William was my father’s name.”
William Wooten II. He died before I was born. Neither my uncle nor my grandmother talk about him much. He owned and managed a small chain of five-and-dime stores in the Northeast called Wooten’s that were started by his father and later sold by my grandfather George, who my grandmother married a billion years ago and who died when I was little. From what I understand, William II worked a lot and was also a high-functioning alcoholic.
“Did you get along with your dad?” I ask Uncle Theo.
He shrugs, “Eh.” Then shakes his head. “No.”
“Was he an asshole?” If Uncle Theo can say cocksucker, then I can say asshole.
“He didn’t have much use for me. He liked my brother George.”
That’s news to me. “My dad and I don’t get along so well either,” I tell him, revealing more than I ever intended in coming here.
“Is he an asshole?”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
Uncle Theo shrugs. “Must run in the family.”
I laugh. I don’t know if he realizes what he’s saying or if he’s just being agreeable, but it does make me feel a little better that I’m not the only one having a hard time of it.
A male nurse comes up to us then, short and chubby, and in his midthirties if I had to guess. He rubs his hands together as he greets my uncle with a little bow and a deferential “Good afternoon, Captain Wooten.” Then he turns to me. “My name’s Manuel.” He offers his hand to me in a very gentlemanly gesture. My limited-range gaydar goes off immediately as I shake the guy’s hand and eye him up and down. He’s cute in a cuddly sort of way. His demeanor seems very gentle, and he has sweet brown eyes with long lashes, kind of like a Jersey cow.
Manuel turns back to my uncle. “Gloria said you were asking for me.”
“I’m ready to go back to my room,” Uncle Theo says. He drops his cards and braces his hands on the table to stand. I don’t bother reminding him we were supposed to play a game of gin rummy. I don’t think anything could distract him from Manuel at the moment.
“What about your visitor?” Manuel says, looking apologetically at me.
Uncle Theo glances down and glares at me, irritated that I might ruin whatever rendezvous he has planned.
“I was just leaving.” I stand, curious to know where this thing is headed.
My uncle nods sharply, as though saluting. He lifts one hand, and Manuel supplies his arm for my uncle to take. Manuel glances back at me, “Nice to meet you,” he says with a smile and then softer, to my uncle, “Should we take the long way?”
“Yes, of course,” my uncle says gruffly.
They shuffle slowly out of the room. Manuel walks much slower to match my uncle’s pace, perhaps letting him think he’s leading. They cross the hallway to the elevator, and Manuel waves at me from inside it. My uncle stares straight ahead, at attention.
I wander back to the window, stunned, while Gloria collects the playing cards and places them back into the cardboard case. “I’ll bring these back to him later,” she says. “He hates it when the other residents lose his cards.”
I open my mouth to ask Gloria about my uncle’s relationship with Manuel, which seems to me almost like… a crush? But then think better of it—this is something for me to investigate further on my own, and I wouldn’t want Uncle Theo to find out I’ve been meddling. As I’m about to turn away from the window, I see Manuel leading my uncle down the sidewalk toward the concrete seawall that overlooks the water. Manuel talks animatedly and my uncle, I’m shocked to see, is
smiling.
WTF, Part 1
I’M STILL contemplating my visit with Uncle Theo when I return home to find Chris out front in his driveway shooting hoops, shirtless, of course, and glistening with sweat. Positively mouthwatering. Ugh.
“Up for a game?” he asks, faking to my left, then dribbling around me for a basket. I could watch him shoot hoops all day, in slow motion, on repeat.
“Yeah, sure.” I roll my skateboard into the grass where we won’t trip on it and toss my shirt on top of it because I’m already sweating. “To fifteen. Make it, take it,” I tell him. If I don’t settle the terms ahead of time, Chris will use it to his advantage. Like if we’re tied up for the win and I get the point, we’re suddenly playing to twenty-one, not fifteen. Chris hates losing, and when he thinks he might be, he’s a bit of a cheat.
“I get the ball first, since you’ve got two inches on me now,” he says.
“You’ve got twenty pounds on me,” I protest, sure he’s angling for an advantage.
“Are you calling me fat again?” Chris asks with a grin, lobbing the ball at my chest for a check.
“Pleasantly plump.” I beam it back at him. He’s far from fat, and he knows it.
To prove his superior level of fitness, he dribbles by me and spins around my back, then does a flashy layup, using my shoulder to get more air. I let him by me because I can’t take my eyes off his basketball shorts and how they hang just below his hips, exposing the waistband of his briefs, how easy it would be to yank them both down around his ankles and….
“Foul,” I mutter, knowing it’s useless.
“Got to get comfortable with a little contact, Wooten,” Chris says, strutting back to the line while dribbling. I roll my eyes and can’t help smiling at his cockiness.
This time I’m ready for his round-about move and when he turns, I’m there to use my height to my advantage and strip the ball from him, then double back and take the shot. But my aim is off, maybe because I haven’t played since my growth spurt. The ball hits the rim and bounces off into the bushes. I practically have to climb into Chris’s hedge to retrieve it, and when I back out of the greenery, Chris is there waiting.
When Everything Is Blue Page 11