“Confirmed,” she said, nodding her head. “When he isn’t in the bathroom, he watches TV, reads, goes out with friends to R-rated movies he shouldn’t see and he plays basketball. I play basketball. I play the recorder too. Want to hear?”
I sat at the table and said,
“After dinner maybe.”
“You don’t think I can really play, do you?”
“I think you can really play. I just don’t know how well. I play a harmonica. It sounds all right to me. Other people think I stink.”
“You have a harmonica with you?”
“No, I haven’t played since… for a while.”
She sat across from me.
“That’s because you’re not happy.”
“You are very wise for a child who has not even lived one lifetime,” I said.
“What?”
“That’s from Dracula.”
“I don’t remember that part. I can’t think of anything else to entertain you. Mom said I should entertain you.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
Michael emerged from the bathroom and said, “Kentucky Fried, great.”
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he answered, reaching into a bucket for a chicken leg.
“Wait for mom,” Susan said.
“I’m starving,” he said. “I’ll just eat one and then I’ll wait.”
“Do Borgs eat?” I asked.
He sat and thought about it, drumming the chicken leg against a finger.
“What are Borgs?” Susan asked.
“Borgs are like zombies in Star Trek,” Michael explained.
“I don’t like Star Trek,” she said to me. “My father was big. Mom thinks Michael looks like him and is going to be big. He’s already pretty big.”
“I think Borgs don’t eat because they’re mostly machines,” he concluded. “It’s a good question.”
“I don’t like mashed potatoes when they get cold,” Susan said.
“We can microwave them,” Michael said, looking at me. “Mind if I ask you a question? I’m not trying to offend you or anything.”
“Ask,” I said.
“Are you making moves on my mother?”
“Michael,” Susan shouted.
“It’s okay,” I said. “No, I’m not. I won’t lie to you. If I keep seeing her, I probably will, but now we’re friends. I lost my wife about four years ago. Car accident. I haven’t… you understand?”
He said he did and took a bite of the chicken leg as the door in the living room opened and Sally stepped in, a black canvas bag in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
“Sorry,” she said.
She came to the table, kissed Susan on the cheek and Michael on top of his head, and then she looked at the table.
“Looks great. I’m hungry.”
“He got you roasted,” Susan said.
Sally sat and said,
“Then what are we waiting for.”
We ate. We talked. Mostly about nothing much. Kids feeling me out. Me playing. Sally listening, watching. I was having a good time. I didn’t forget what was outside and what was deep inside me, but I enjoyed myself.
“Easy cleanup,” Sally said when we were clearly finished.
Susan got a white plastic garbage bag while I consolidated what was left of the chicken into one bucket to go into the refrigerator.
There wasn’t much privacy in the apartment, but there was a small balcony with three chairs and a telescope. Sally and I went out while Michael and Susan watched television.
I told her everything.
“Sometimes… there are people I’d seriously consider shooting if I could. Dwight Handford is one, right at the top of the list. There’s a real possibility that Adele will actually be sent back to him and I might not be able to do anything about it. I know what he’s done to her and will keep doing. The courts know what he did to his niece. I’ve never hit one of my kids. I’ve never hit anyone. I’ve never held a gun. The Dwight Handfords of this world make me think about going to one of the many gun shops in this town.”
“And Pirannes?” I asked.
“I’ve got a little list,” she said.
“Of society’s offenders who may well be underground,” I said.
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” she said. “I did The Mikado in high school. Played one of the three little girls.”
“And I may have a foster home for Adele,” I said, “providing my candidate passes whatever tests you give.”
“I don’t give them, but others do.”
“Her name is Florence Zink. She’s rich. She’s tough. She drinks. She swears, but she’s a good woman. Like to meet her?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“I can’t leave the kids. Tomorrow. Give me a number. I’ll have someone call her.”
“And,” I said getting up, “I’ll go talk to her. Who looks at the stars?”
“We all do,” she said, touching the gray telescope fixed on an eye-level tripod. “I do it when the kids go to bed. Reminds me of how little we are.”
“You want to be reminded?”
“Makes me feel better to think that what happens on earth isn’t all that important. Makes me feel that I should concentrate on what I’ve got and enjoy it. And then I take my eye away from the lens and go back to the Adeles and Dwight Handfords. I’ve got paperwork.”
Michael and Susan were watching a sitcom I didn’t recognize. Sally walked me to the door.
“How did the Baby Ruth candy bar get its name?” I asked.
“Easy,” said Susan. “The fat baseball player who hit all the home runs and drank beer before Mark McGwire.”
Michael slumped, arms folded, and didn’t bother to answer.
“No,” I said. “Grover Cleveland got married after he became President of the United States. His wife had a baby named Ruth. It was a big thing. There were Baby Ruth dolls and a Baby Ruth candy bar.”
“I’ll tell Maggie and Shayna tomorrow,” Susan said. “You know a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Stuff.”
Sally left the front door barely ajar behind us when we stepped out.
“You’re a good man, Lewis,” she said, kissing me with sincerity but no passion as she held my hands in hers.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about Adele.”
I started toward the stairs.
“Michael’s going to an overnight basketball weekend and Susan’s staying at her friend Maggie’s on Saturday,” she said.
“Saturday,” I repeated.
