ten-year-old, but he's still extremely handsome, with a messy swath of gray hair barely receding at the temples. He's wearing his favorite T-shirt--the one with the Heinz ketchup logo on it--and his always present khaki shorts, which are pulled too high around his stomach. Down low, he's got white sneakers and black socks. Watching Nora, he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I can see the surprise on her face. 'Nice to meet you, Mr. Garrick,' she says, removing her baseball cap. It's the first time she's done that in public. No more hiding.
'Do you know who she is?' I ask, suddenly enjoying myself.
'He's my baby boy,' he tells Nora, proudly putting his arm around me. As he says the words, he looks away from both of us. His always wide eyes go straight to the corner of the room and his shoulders slump awkwardly forward.
'Dad, I asked you a question. Do you know who she is?'
His mouth hangs open as he turns to her with a long sideways glance. Confused, he says, 'Pretty girl with small breasts?'
'Dad!'
'She's not?' he asks sheepishly, his eyes darting away.
'Actually, that's just a nickname,' she says, extending a hand. 'I'm Nora.'
'Frank,' he blurts with a grin. 'Frank Garrick.' He wipes his hand against his stomach and offers it to Nora.
I know what she's thinking. The way his mouth gapes open; the way he's always staring in the distance--it's not what she expected. His teeth buck slightly forward, his neck cranes upward. He's an adult, but he looks more like an oversized kid--who happens to have really poor fashion sense.
'Dad, why're you still wearing those black socks? I told you they look terrible with sneakers.'
'They stay up better,' he says, pulling up each sock to its height limit. 'Nothing wrong with that.'
'There sure isn't,' Nora says. 'I think you look handsome.'
'She says I look handsome,' he repeats, rocking back and forth. As I watch the two of them, he stands right next to her--completely invading her personal space--but Nora never steps back.
I grin at Nora, but she turns away to check out the room. Above my dad's bed is a framed picture from Michigan's Special Olympics. It's an aerial shot of a young man competing in the long jump. On the opposite wall is the framed collage I made for him when he moved into the group home. Built with pictures from the last thirty years, it lets him know I'm always there.
'Is this you?' Nora asks, examining the collage.
'Which one?' I ask.
'Bowl haircut and the pink oxford shirt. The little prepster.'
'That's Mikey in his big-boy shirt,' my dad says proudly. 'Off to school, off to school.'
In the corner, she glances at the rows of empty Heinz ketchup bottles that line the bookshelves, and the windowsills, and the side table next to the bed, and every other free space in the room. Following her glance, my dad beams. I shoot him a look. He can show her the ketchup bottles later. Not now.
Next to the bookcase, his bed is made, but his desk's a mess. On top of the clutter is a framed wedding photo. Nora goes right to it.
Right away, my dad starts flicking his middle finger against his thumb. Flick, flick, flick, flick. 'She's my wife. Philly. Phyllis. Phyllis,' he repeats as Nora picks up the frame. Decked out in their respective tux and wedding dress, my dad looks young and slender; my mom shy and overweight.
'She's very pretty,' Nora says.
'She's beautiful. I'm handsome,' he says. Flick, flick, flick. 'Here's Michael with the President. The real one.' Reaching over, he hands Nora a photograph of me and her dad.
'Wow,' she says. 'And Michael gave this to you?'
'I told you--he's my boy.'
* * *
After a quick game of Connect Four, we head to the backyard for lunch. Polishing off the remains of our turkey and ketchup sandwiches, the three of us are sitting at an old wooden picnic table. 'Want a surprise for dessert?' my dad asks as soon as he's done eating.
'I do,' Nora says immediately.
'Michael, what about . . .'
'Sure,' I add.
'You got it! Wait right here.' He shoots up out of his seat, almost knocking over his plate.
'Where're you going?' I ask as he heads away from the house.
'Next door,' he explains without turning around.
My eyes are locked on him as he waddles toward the log fence that separates the two properties. 'Be careful,' I shout.
He waves back at me, his arm flailing through the air.
'You really get crazy about him, don't you?' Nora asks.
I rip a piece of crust from my bread and crumble it in my hand. 'I can't help it. Ever since that photographer took my picture . . . If they're that interested, you know they're going to come out here eventually.'
'And what's so terrible about that?'
She thinks I'm embarrassed of him. Even if I am, I wish it were that simple. 'Don't tell me there's no reason to worry.'
'Maybe it's just a mind game. Maybe it's Simon's way of telling you to keep quiet.'
'And what if it's not? What if the press already knows about this guy Vaughn--?'
'I told you before, don't play what-if. You're meeting with Vaughn on Monday--you'll find out soon enough. Until then, we'll talk to Marlon and tell him to keep a close watch.'
'But what if . . .' I catch myself. 'Maybe I should bring him back to the city. He can stay with me.'
'That's a crap idea and you know it.'
'You have anything better?'
'I'm going to ask the Service to keep tabs on him out here.'
'They'd do that?'
'They're the Secret Service. They'd suck bullets from a tommy gun if they thought it'd keep us safe.'
'You mean, if it'd keep you safe.'
'The benefit cup runneth over,' she says, raising an eyebrow. 'If something suspicious happens to my friends, I'm supposed to report it. They'll open a file and look into it. That should be more than enough to keep him safe.'
I push the crumbs on my plate into a small, neat pile. Time for some order. 'Thank you, Nora. That'd be great.' Looking up, I notice that she still hasn't put on her baseball cap. 'That'd really mean a lot to us.'
All she does is nod. Standing from her seat, she picks up her empty plate and starts to clean up.
'Leave it,' I tell her. 'Marlon likes my dad to do it himself. The group home's goal is self-sufficiency.'
'But doesn't he--' Nora cuts herself off.
'What?'
'No, nothing. I just--' Once again, she interrupts herself. She's lived her whole life on the receiving end of this one. Fascination with dad. It's killing her to pry.
'He's mentally retarded,' I offer. 'And don't worry, I don't mind you asking.'
She looks away, but her face is flushed red. She's blushing. So that's what it takes to rattle her. 'How long has he suffered with it?' she asks.
'He doesn't 'suffer,'' I explain. 'He was just born with a slower ability to learn--which means he takes a little longer with logic and other complex reasoning. The upside, though, is that he'll never lie about his emotions. It's the charm of openness. He means what he says.'
'Does that mean I have small breasts?'
I laugh. 'Sorry about that one. It sometimes takes its toll on some of his social skills.'
'So is your mom . . . ?'
