Barefoot: A Novel

oil alone was enough to place Tom Flynn in a separate category of man from Josh. A different generation. Tom Flynn had been in the military in the eighties—he had been stationed near Afghanistan for two years— something about intel igence and aircraft. Josh wasn’t sure what his father had done, but Josh attributed most of his father’s behaviors—his silence, his promptness, his stiff upper lip, even his neat dresser and closet—to this time in the military.

Although Tom Flynn was a supremely competent and dedicated air traffic control er, he made it clear to Josh that the job at Nantucket Memorial Airport, even on the most hectic summer days, was too easy; it was a walk in the park compared to what he’d done “before.” The military, then, felt like Tom Flynn’s “real job.” Nantucket was a pale replacement, time put in until retirement.

Tom Flynn took a deep breath and stared down at his bare feet as though he were surprised to find them there, sticking out past the cuffs of his pants. Josh fol owed his father’s gaze. His father’s feet were pale and fishy-looking, the nails square-cut and yel owing. Josh looked up. As hard as it was for Josh to listen, it would be even harder for Tom Flynn to speak.

“What is it, Dad?”

“I don’t know if I should even bring this up,” Tom Flynn said. “You are an adult, after al .”

“What is it?”

“The Patalka girl stopped me in the parking lot at work,” Tom Flynn said. “Yesterday, on my way home. She told me you’ve been seeing one of the women you work for. There’s one who’s pregnant?”

Josh nodded.

“But it’s not your baby?”

“No. God, no.”

“I’ve noticed, obviously, that you’ve been leaving the house quite late and getting back in at God-knows-what hour. Every night, it seems like. So I figured there was a girl. But this . . . woman? Older than you? Pregnant with another man’s child? Do you know what you’re doing, Joshua?”

Josh stared at the thin blue ribbon on the horizon that was Miacomet Pond. Under other circumstances he might have been supremely embarrassed. He and his father never talked like this; there hadn’t even been a sex talk when Josh was growing up. Now, however, he was relieved. He’d denied everything to Didi, but he wouldn’t be able to lie to his father. It might feel good to talk about it.

“I thought I did at the beginning,” Josh said. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“This woman, she has a husband?”

“They’re separated.”

“But the baby . . .”

“Right. It’s complicated.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-one,” Josh said. “Although how old she is doesn’t matter.”

“It’s unusual,” Tom Flynn said. “And the fact that she’s pregnant . . .”

“Dad, I know, okay? It just happened, I’m not sure how, and now I’m in it. I love her.” Even as Josh spoke the words, he was surprising himself.

Did he love Melanie? Maybe he did. One thing was for sure: He had never felt as alive—happy, self-aware, conflicted, engaged—as he did this summer, with those three women. Maybe love wasn’t the right word for it, but it was the only word he had.

Josh thought his father might laugh at this declaration, but Tom Flynn’s expression held steady.

“I didn’t argue when you said you wanted to quit the airport. I figured you knew what you were doing. Babysitting a couple of little kids . . . wel , you’re a people person and the money was good and I know the mother is sick and you felt invested, for some reason, in helping her out.” Here, Tom Flynn stopped and took another breath. This was a marathon of talk for him. “Now I’m wondering if there’s something else at work.”

“What do you mean?”

“These women . . .”

“You mean sex?”

“I mean, why were you drawn to working for these women? Maybe it was about sex. But they’re a lot older than you, Josh. And it crossed my mind

—even before I was accosted by the Patalka girl—that you’re out there in ’Sconset trying to find your mother.”

“Jesus, Dad . . .”

“I’m the last person to deal in Freudian bul shit,” Tom Flynn said. “But I’m not blind and I’m not stupid. You lost your mother at a young age. I dealt with it the best way I knew how, but maybe not the best way there was, you know what I’m saying?”

Josh nodded.

“Maybe we should have talked about your mother until we were blue in the face. Maybe we should have raked ourselves over hot coals about why she did it. Was it something I said or did, was it something you said or did, was it seasonal fucking mood disorder, what? What was it? Maybe we should have cried about it, screamed, yel ed, hugged, maybe we should have punched holes in the plaster, smashed the toaster oven, ripped up the snapshots. Maybe those were better ways to deal with it, healthier ways. Instead of what we did, which was one foot in front of the other. Head up, eyes forward. There are lots of things we’l never know, never understand, and why your mother took her own life is one of them.” Tom Flynn lifted a hand—it was trembling—and put it on Josh’s shoulder. “I can tel you one thing for sure. Your mother loved you.”