Fitz

by Mick Cochrane

  “With a blue ribbon on it.”

  “You know that picture.”

  “I know it.”

  “Someone’s holding me in that picture. You can see his hands.”

  His father sets his bottle of water on the ground. He holds his hands out in front of him, palms up. Just the way you would cradle a newborn, his long fingers extended, his right hand raised slightly to support the head. Except that his hands are empty. Fitz and his father stare into those empty hands, hands holding nothing, holding an invisible baby, holding the baby that Fitz used to be. Fitz can almost, but not quite, see his baby self.

  Those hands, his father’s empty hands—they may be the saddest thing Fitz has ever seen. But for the first time today, the first time ever, Fitz knows it—he feels it. This is his father.

  13

  They’re still sitting on their bench. The sun is higher in the sky now. It’s warming up. If Fitz didn’t have a gun stuck in his waistband, he’d think about pulling off his sweatshirt. His father has picked up his bottle of water, and they’ve each been sipping, listening to the growl and whine of construction, thinking their own thoughts.

  “She says you were young and foolish,” Fitz says at last. “Young and foolish. Like it was the name of a soap opera.”

  “The Young and the Foolish.”

  “Were you?”

  “Oh yes,” his father says. “I was. I’ll speak for myself. I had a starring role in that show.”

  Fitz wants more but isn’t quite sure how to draw it out. He knows that stories can be cautious animals, like chipmunks or rabbits, and Fitz doesn’t want to scare this one away. He decides just to hold still, wait.

  “It’s none of my business, I know,” his father says. “I have no right to ask. But I wonder if you have a girl. You don’t have to answer.”

  Fitz thinks about Nora. He actually had a conversation with her after school the day before. Supposedly about singing in the band now that the spring musical was done. He didn’t tell her that whenever he heard her sing, no matter what it was—could be a spiritual, could be a corny show tune—he felt something. Her voice seemed to know things—there were secrets in it. Instead he just handed her a blues mix Caleb had burned for her and told her a little bit about the singers on it—Etta James, Ruth Brown, Koko Taylor. Just some secondhand tidbits and anecdotes he’d picked up from Caleb. But Nora was into it. She wanted to know more. She listened so intently—forehead scrunched in concentration, nodding as he talked, as if she were keeping the beat—it was a little unnerving. But he liked it. It made him feel interesting. Talking to Nora, he didn’t feel adrift. He felt if only she’d listen to him long enough, he might figure out who he was.

  “Not really,” Fitz says.

  “But there’s someone. Maybe someone.”

  “Well sure, maybe,” Fitz says. He feels himself starting to blush. “And your point?”

  “My point is,” his father says, “I wonder if this girl, this maybe girl, if she’s ever made you foolish.”

  Nora is his maybe girl. Has she made him foolish? Not much. Not unless it’s foolish to stare at the back of her head in biology class, to follow the ever-changing configurations of her amazing red hair, the complicated female business of holding it in place with an arsenal of bands, ties, and clips. Not unless it’s foolish to study her picture in all his yearbooks, all the way back to elementary school, to follow her year-by-year transformation from gawky little girl into her current self. To memorize her schedule so that he can position himself at strategic locations throughout the school where she passes by. To imagine that they might someday study biology together, just the two of them. To hope. Is that foolish?

  Because they have bottles in their hands, Fitz feels like there might be some kind of bar-room camaraderie between them, a couple of guys knocking a few back and talking about women. He almost says something about Nora. Almost. But stops himself.

  Because he doesn’t know this guy, not really. Maybe he was in the delivery room. So was the doctor. What does that prove? Anybody can hold a baby.

  “I want to talk about you,” Fitz says. He tries to put an edge back in his voice. “Your foolishness, not mine.”

  “Okay,” his father says. “Sure.”

  “Did you guys, like, go out on dates? You and my mom?”

  “Sure we did,” his father says. “We went out on dates.”

  “You ask her out?”

  “Yeah, I asked her out.”

  “What did you like about her?” Fitz asks. “Tell me about that. Curtis and Annie, sitting in a tree. That’s the story I want to hear.”

  This is a test. As far as Fitz is concerned, it’s pass-fail, make or break. A deal breaker. Does he even know her? Are they even talking about the same person?

  14

  “Back then,” his father tells Fitz, “she had an apartment on Grand Avenue. Right down the street from the place she worked. The diner. That’s where we met—you know that, right? I was in law school, and that’s where my buddy and I went to get something to eat after studying. She was our regular waitress.”

  Fitz shifts a little on the bench. He didn’t know they met at a diner, but he’s not about to let on. He shifts again—the gun is cutting into him. He wonders why all the movie gangsters hide weapons in their waistbands. It’s super-uncomfortable. First chance he gets, Fitz decides, he’s going to put it back in the pouch of his sweatshirt.

  His father has paused and is watching him. “I’m listening,” Fitz says. “Go on. She was your regular waitress.”

  “She lived in a basement apartment, with pipes and radiators on the ceiling. Except she hung strings of Christmas lights from the pipes, decorated with all kinds of colorful stuff—flowers, I think, sparkly streamer things, crepe paper. In Annie’s apartment, every day was a holiday.

  “The first time I picked her up for a date it took her the longest time to come to the door. I thought maybe I had the wrong day, the wrong time. I knocked again and waited some more. Of course, I was nervous. Finally, she opened the door. It was obvious she’d been crying: her eyes were all red, and there were little rivers of mascara running down her cheeks. She had a tissue wadded in one hand and some kind of dangerous-looking tool in the other hand, a wire cutter. Uh-oh, I thought. I’m in trouble now.

  “But it wasn’t about me. Not at all. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  “On a coffee table in the living room there was this tiny plastic portable television—right out of the 1970s, or maybe the ’60s. Some kind of relic. A museum piece. There was a bent coat hanger coming out of the set, a makeshift antenna. The TV was surrounded by little cups full of beads and stones, coils of wire, pliers—she was making jewelry back then. So that explained the wire cutter.

  “She was watching Casablanca. The old movie. You know it?”

  Fitz isn’t stupid. Of course he knows it. Play it again, Sam. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. It’s on cable about every other night. “Yeah,” Fitz says. “I’ve heard of it.”

  “So okay. But the thing is, she’s not really watching the movie. This television has no picture. The tube or whatever must be shot. The screen is dark. She’s listening to the movie, that’s what she’s doing. She sits down, sets her wire cutter on the table, leans forward. Doesn’t say a word—just points to the television. I figure, what the heck. I take a seat next to her on her little couch, and we both sit there, staring at the broken television, listening to the sound track. Pretty stupid, right? Like watching the radio. It makes no sense. Except after a while, I’m drawn into it, the story, the voices, without distraction, just the sound of these people talking to each other.

  “Then all of a sudden these little orange sparks start flickering in the back of the television. First one, then more. ‘Annie,’ I say, and point. But she shushes me. But then there’s more sparks. I start to smell something burning. ‘Annie,’ I say again. ‘This is the best part,’ she says. So okay, I shut up.

  “In the movie, they’re at the airpo
rt. Rick is saying goodbye to Ilsa. A classic scene. I must have seen it before but never really heard it, not like this. Ilsa asking, ‘What about us?’ The airplane propellers. Bogey being Bogey. Annie is crying again now, too. I’m starting to feel a little choked up myself.

  “That’s when the TV set combusts. Not just sparks now, I’m talking about a flame. The television is on fire. This at least gets Annie’s attention. She leaps up and yanks the plug from the wall. I pick up the television—the thing is hot!—Annie opens the apartment door for me and leads me to the Dumpster behind the building, and I toss it in. How’s that for a way to start a first date?”

  His father takes a drink of his water. It’s like he’s waiting for applause, some kind of response. And Fitz has to admit it: this guy is good. It’s a good story. Fitz could practically see the sparks flying out of the television. He can’t help but wonder, though: is it just a little too perfect? Fitz wonders if his father has told it before, how many times.

  “We’re talking about my mom,” Fitz says. “What you liked about her.”

  “Sure,” his father says. “What did I like about her?” He looks at the label of his water bottle, as if maybe the answer is printed there. “Everything,” he says. “All of it. Her crappy television and her year-round Christmas lights. Her tears, her big heart. Her little cups of beads and her wire cutter. Her fearlessness. The whole package. I never met anyone like her before.”

  15

  The woman in his father’s story, that girl, that Annie—Fitz knows her. It’s his mom, spot-on. The black-and-white movie sap. Staying up late to watch The Philadelphia Story for the zillionth time, giving him an elbow if he dares make a smart remark. His mom, the dollar-store Martha Stewart, forever fixing and fiddling, rigging and rearranging, their whole house like some never-ending arts-and-crafts project. That’s his mom, all right.

  If this were the final exam answer on the subject of his mom, his father passes with flying colors. He’s in the ninetieth percentile. But Fitz doesn’t let on. “That’s a nice story,” he says. He makes his voice flat, almost bored.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” his father says.

  Fitz sips his water. He wonders if maybe Nora likes old movies. He wonders if he invited her over to watch Casablanca, would that make him seem interesting? If the picture went out, would she keep listening?

  But what he needs to be thinking about right now is what’s next. What’ll we do with ourselves? That’s something Daisy asks Gatsby. That’s what Fitz has got to figure out. What’s he going to do with his father now?

  There are other things to do at the park: more animals to see in the zoo, the paddleboats on the lake, ducks to feed, all the rides in the amusement park. In the happy home movie in his head, there are scenes of Fitz and his father on the bumper cars, the two of them getting strapped into the roller coaster.

  But now, Fitz is not so sure. Thrill rides? His father doesn’t seem like the type. As far as Fitz can determine, his father is looking for a smooth ride through life—that’s why he drives a luxury car. He’s not looking to get jostled. He’s not interested in free fall. He doesn’t want to get his hair messed up.

  To be honest, Fitz is not even sure he’s the type himself. With his mom, the Tilt-A-Whirl, that’s about as wild as the two of them ever got. When he came to the park with Caleb, his friend was obsessed, as he often was, with the danger of things. Everyday objects. How easy it is to choke on a corn dog. More people are killed annually by vending machines than by sharks, Caleb likes to remind Fitz. But Caleb believes the point is not to relax while swimming in the ocean: instead, he believes, you should fear vending machines—they’re more dangerous than sharks. Now, thanks to Caleb, Fitz can’t help but notice how irresponsible all the ride operators look, how fragile the machinery seems, the rattletrap sound of it all.

  Besides, Fitz knows he’s got only so much time. The clock is ticking. It’s already late in the morning. His mom gets home from work at four o’clock. He needs to be home before then, delete the message from the attendance office and answer his mom’s after-school text.

  He needs to make a decision, announce a plan. Kneel down and draw a play in the dirt. It’s up to him.

  “I think we should get something to eat,” Fitz says. “I’m hungry.”

  “Good idea,” his father says.

  “I wanna go to that diner,” Fitz says. It’s where they met. That much he knows. It’s like the scene of the crime.

  “Okay,” his father says. It bothers Fitz a little that his father is agreeing to the plan, as if he’s got a say. Fitz is afraid he’s losing control.

  “We can do that,” his father says. “But you gotta do one thing for me. When we get there, you gotta leave the gun in the car. Promise me that. I’m not gonna flee.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Trust you.”

  “You’ve got my wallet and my phone,” his father says. “You’ve got my car keys. What am I gonna do? Walk away? Don’t you see? I’m all in. I’m in it for the duration. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Fitz isn’t sure what to say.

  “If I run away,” his father says, “you can come back tomorrow and shoot me. You know where I live. You can come back and shoot me every day for the rest of my life.”

  He smiles, just a little bit. But Fitz doesn’t feel as if he’s being laughed at. It’s as if his father is amused at himself, or maybe by the two of them, this pickle they’re in, together.

  16

  It’s a little before noon, and there’s a mix of people in the place. Some well-dressed business types, coming in for lunch. Some younger people in T-shirts and jeans, college age, lingering over egg-stained plates. A bearded, professor-looking guy is reading a book at the counter. In a back room, there’s a round table ringed with mostly older women who seem like members of some kind of club or fellowship.

  Fitz has eaten in a diner-style restaurant at the mall. It was like a diner theme park. You could get fried bologna, which was one of his mom’s specialties, one of Fitz’s favorite sandwiches since he was a little kid. But at the mall restaurant you weren’t supposed to take it seriously. It was a joke. It was ironic bologna. You were supposed to laugh at it, laugh at yourself eating it, with the same attitude you might wear white socks and slick back your hair for a fifties sock hop.

  This place isn’t like that, not at all. No retro cutesy stuff on the walls. No obnoxious oldies Muzak. There’s a glass case full of pies. There’s a Polaroid of a cat taped to the register. Fitz can see a couple of wiry cooks in the back dressed in white T-shirts and grubby aprons, one of them, the guy scraping the grill, with forearms full of old-fashioned tattoos—anchors and eagles and such. Nothing ironic about him.

  A sign tells them to seat themselves, and they slip into a booth near the windows. Fitz can see a boy about his own age on the street outside, waiting for a bus. He keeps leaning into the street to see what’s coming. He has the same backpack as Fitz. Fitz wonders what this kid’s backstory is, why he’s not in school. A dropout? Skipping? Going to seek out his dad, wherever he is? Not likely. But who knows? The world is full of mysteries, everybody’s got a story.

  “So here we are,” his father says. He cranes his neck and looks around. Takes two menus from behind a napkin holder and slides one over to Fitz.

  “Seems like an okay place,” Fitz says.

  “You’ve never been here?” His father seems surprised. “Annie loved this place. It’s like she owned it. She was this place.”

  A waitress brings them water. She’s young and pretty. She’s got rust-colored hair and cool glasses, big hoopy earrings and a tiny diamond in her nose. She’s light on her feet, bopping to some private rhythm.

  “How are you today, gentlemen?” she asks.

  Fitz totally understands how you could fall in love with someone like her. She seems so happy to see them. It’s like she’s been waiting for them.

  She doesn’t look a thing lik
e his mom, but still, Fitz guesses that he and his father are probably both thinking the same thing. It’s like they’ve traveled back in time. It’s like this girl—Maddie, her name tag says—is playing the role of his mom in some back-to-the-future movie.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes,” she says, and leaves them to look over their menus.

  “We used to come here just about every night,” his father says. “Rory and I. At, like, ten, eleven o’clock at night, talking all about contracts and torts. We were regulars.” He looks out the window. There’s a bus at the stop now, but the boy with Fitz’s backpack isn’t climbing aboard.

  “Of course, that was a long time ago,” his father says.

  “Like fifteen years?”

  “Something like that,” his father says. They’re talking about something and not talking about it, all at the same time. This is where they met, Annie and Curtis, his mom and dad. This is where it all started. This is where he started.

  “So,” Fitz says. “Did you have some kind of super-slick pickup line?”

  His father looks offended. “Annie? You think she’d fall for a line? You think she’d go for slick?”

  Fitz almost says something but stops himself. This morning, Fitz was certain that his father was slick, or at the very least, slick in a past life, a guy formerly known as slick. Now he’s not so sure. On the question of his father’s slickness, he’s currently agnostic. He decides to keep his mouth shut.

  “Sometimes,” his father says, “when it was slow, she’d go back into the kitchen and fix our food herself. She’d make us these grilled sandwiches that weren’t even on the menu.

  “Then we’d talk,” his father says. “She’d finish her side work and pull up a chair. The place was dead. That’s how we got to know each other. The old-fashioned way. Nothing slick about it. What you guys do online, we did in person. Very old-school.”