“A function of his immaturity.”
“He likes Annie. And she likes him.” It’s quiet a minute, then, “You do realize, dear, that as long as Annie was lying about . . . everything she felt, you had no problem with her. It was when she started telling us who she really is that you came completely off the tracks.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“You know, back in high school, this is the one thing my parents warned me about.”
“Don’t even start with your parents,” Pop says. “Your father has always loved me like a son.”
“My father likes you because he would do anything to make his daughter happy. You know what he said to me right after we told them we were getting married? He said, ‘He’s a good kid, Jane, but he has to have things his way. I hope you’re ready for that.’ And you know what? I thought I was. But you know what else? Over the years it’s just made me sneaky.”
I feel the air go tense. “Careful . . .” Then, “Have you had other relationships?”
“My god you are thick. No, I have not had other relationships. I’ve barely had this one, and if no other good comes from all of this, I am finished being careful.”
I hear Pop’s chair scoot, then, very low, in a total change of tone, “Jane, if I’m willing to work on all the other things that have come up, are you willing to give up Annie’s placement here?”
“All the other issues?” Momma says.
I wish I could see their faces; Momma sounds interested, maybe even intrigued. My heart almost chokes me. I’m already out of Marvin’s bedroom when Momma answers, because I do not want to hear it.
“You lose stuff from the day you’re born,” Walter says, “starting with a nice, warm safe place to be. You got to learn to lose it with grace, otherwise you leave no room for what’s next. Learnin’ that was the only way I come to manage everything the war took.”
“How did you do it, Walter; or better how do I do it? She was . . . Momma said I didn’t have to worry, and then, you should have heard her voice. I don’t mind moving, but I couldn’t stand her backing out on me. And it would mean no placement for Frankie . . . I couldn’t stand to hear her tell Pop yes.”
He shakes his head. “You hear Momma’s voice through a heat grate and decide everything she’s said to you up to now is a lie? That make sense? You’re geared to believe folks are lying to you because of how you grew up. C’mon, girl, Jane Howard loves you, and you love her.” He taps his temple. “Think!”
We’re in our favorite corner at Revel, which is nearly empty in the early afternoon. “Some people pay a hundred fifty dollars for therapy, Walter. It only costs me a cup of coffee.”
He laughs. “I was thinking of having a scone.”
“You’re covered, but we might have to extend the session.”
“Slow day,” he says. “I don’t have another client until”—he looks at the wall clock—“well, hell, till you call again.”
“You’re probably right about Momma, but it’s the anticipation,” I say. “It’s not knowing for sure.”
“Hate that,” he says. “You know what I do about not knowing?”
“What?”
“I know—make the next thing happen,” he says. “Why let somebody else decide your fate? Weigh in on your own. Let’s say your cockamamie fear about Jane is real, which it is not. Tell the Howards to crap or get off the commode. Whaddaya got to lose? Hell, you’re almost eighteen. In some cultures you’d be a sex slave by now.”
He means I’d have a job.
“If anticipation is the enemy,” he says, “kill it. Going up the losers bracket is the same in life as at Hoopfest. Lose one, kick ’er in gear. Basically we’re talking about an education, right? The Howards were good for tuition?”
“Yeah, I mean they still might. And there’s Marvin. I’d lose him, too.”
“Tuition. Marvin. What the hell,” he says. “They can’t keep you from Marvin any more than they could keep you from your bios. And hell, do a couple years at community college—walk on if you can’t get a scholarship—play hard, and get something at a four-year place.”
“I don’t know if I’m that good.”
“Only one way to find out. If you don’t stack up with the big girls, go to a school with a crappy team. Plenty of those.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Darlin’,” he says, draining his coffee cup, “I can come up with solutions all day long and you can come up with reasons. Either you take control or all you’ve got left is reasons.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
“Gonna sit here a while an’ read,” he says, hoisting his tattered book bag. “We still making that Yakima run?”
“Soon as I get the word from Sheila. Keep your calendar open.”
I answer, “Come in,” to the knock on my bedroom door.
“Hey, Annie,” Momma says.
“Hey.”
“Listen,” she says, “we need to talk.”
“Can I go first?”
“Of course.”
“I think I should find another place to live.”
“What?”
“It would make it a lot easier for you guys to figure things out.”
She stands wide-eyed.
“I heard you talking. I know I’m, like, what Marvin calls the bargaining chip or something.”
Momma rolls her eyes, takes a deep breath, and sits on the side of the bed. “No offense, but you’d be the lamest bargaining chip ever invented. You’re not going anywhere. Or if you are, you’re going with Marvin and me.”
“I thought . . .”
“Annie, Jack’s going to have to learn lessons he should have learned a long time ago. That, or I’ll learn the one I need: that letting a man have his way all the time is the best way to turn him into an asshole. Look, Jack can be a nice guy, when he wants to be. He’s funny, he makes a good living; compared to a lot of people, he might even be a passable parent. But I’ve let him tell me what’s best for Marvin and you, and what’s best for me, when I
