”The kid’s never been taught how to act,“ I said. ”He doesn’t know anything. He’s got no pride. He’s got nothing he’s good at. He’s got nothing but the tube.“
”And you plan to teach him.“
”Ill teach him what I know. I know how to do carpentry. I know how to cook. I know how to punch. I know how to act.“
”You’re not so bad in the rack either, big fella.“
I grinned. ”We’ll let him work that out on his own, maybe.“
She shook her head. ”You make it sound simple. It’s not. You don’t teach people unless they want to learn. It’s not just an intellectual exercise. It’s a matter of emotion, of psychology. I mean the boy may be positively pathological.“
”He’s got nothing to lose,“ I said, ”Compared to an afternoon of game shows on TV, anything is up. For crissake, the kid watches soap operas,“ I said.
”So do I,“ Susan said.
”Well, your degeneracy is already established,“ I said. ”Besides you do others things.“
”Only with you, sweet potato.“
”You want to get in on this?“ I said.
”The salvation of Paul Giacomin?“
”Yeah.“
”I’m willing to consult,“ she said. ”But I don’t want to see you overinvested in this. The chances of success are slight. What happens if next week his mother runs out of money?“
”We’ll worry about that when it happens.“
”It’ll happen soon,“ Susan said.
”Woman’s intuition?“
”Believe me,“ Susan said. ”It’ll be soon.“
I shrugged.
”You’ll keep him anyway,“ she said.
I didn’t say anything.
”You will,“ she said, ”you big goddamned sap. You know you will.“
”He needs to grow up quick,“ I said. ”He needs to get autonomous. It’s the only hope he’s got. For him he’s gotta stop being a kid at fifteen. His parents are shit. He can’t depend on them anymore, He’s gotta get autonomous.“
”And you’re going to show him how?“
”Yes.“
”Well, no one better. You’re the most autonomous human being I’ve ever seen. It’s a grim prospect for a fifteen-year-old boy though.“
”How do you like his prospects if he doesn’t grow up quick?“
Susan was quiet, looking down at me. ”Spring will be a little late this year,“ she said.
”For Paul? Yeah.“ I laughed with no pleasure. ”Spring is gone. It’s early autumn for Paul. If I can do it“
”And if he can,“ Susan said.
CHAPTER 15
It was early May and the sun was thick and warm. The forsythias had begun. The birds were about and the joggers were out of their sweat pants, legs gleaming white in the spring sun. Paul Giacomin came out of his house with a big green plaid suitcase and a white drawstring laundry bag. He was still wearing his pea coat. He needed a haircut. His corduroy pants were too short. He was straining to carry the two bags.
I was driving Susan’s Bronco. I got out and took the suitcase from Paul and put it in the back. He stuck the laundry bag in beside it and left the drawstring hanging out over the tailgate. I flipped the string inside and put the power window up with the key. Patty Giacomin came out and stood by the Bronco. Pale green slacks, lavender shirt, white blazer. Big sunglasses, bright lipstick. Stephen was with her. He was as beautiful as she-jeans with a Pierre Cardin patch on them, Frye boots, a half-buttoned tailored collarless shirt in vertical blue-on-blue stripes, a gray sharkskin vest, unbuttoned. His dark maroon Pontiac Firebird was parked in the Giacomin driveway.
”The Firebird’s not right,“ I said. ”It doesn’t go with the rest of the look.“
”Oh, really,“ Stephen said. ”What would you suggest?“
”A Z maybe, or a Porsche. Extend that clean sophisticated continental look, you know?“
Stephen smiled. ”Perhaps,“ he said.
Patty said to her son, ”I’ll write you a letter.“
He nodded. She made an awkward gesture of hugging him. But she didn’t seem able to carry through and ended up putting one arm across his shoulders for a moment and patting him slightly on the back. He stood silently while this happened. Then he got into the Bronco. The high step into the front seat was difficult and he had to
