“So are you.”
“I played Legos with him for five minutes. You’re…you’re a really good dad.” Walker wasn’t used to such a serious Cameron. But then Cameron began laughing, more like nervous exhalation. He waved everything off, mocking his self from a few seconds ago.
“Did you draw this?” He picked up a framed picture of a newspaper cartoon sitting on the edge of the mantle. In the cartoon, two old ladies—one named Bush, the other Gore—were at a bingo hall. The state of Florida was calling the number, and both old ladies shouted bingo at the same time.
“Do you remember the 2000 presidential election and the recount drama? The hanging chads?”
“Of course I do.” Cameron studied the picture. “I learned about it in history class.”
Walker groaned to himself. “I was one of the cartoonists forThe Browerton Buglemy junior and senior year. That one got syndicated in a few other college newspapers.” Walker had forgotten that cartoon was there. He passed by it so often that it became a decoration more than an accomplishment.
“I remember the sketch you drew at the club…” Cameron brought the picture over to the couch. “You are amazingly talented.”
“Thank you.” Walker didn’t need to look at the cartoon. Doug had gotten it framed as a Christmas gift. A wince of pain shot through Walker’s chest when he held the frame up close, and he was back in his apartment, knocking this out in a two a.m. burst of inspiration.
“How many cartoons did you draw for the paper?”
Walker shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe fifty or so.”
“Fifty? Wow!” He held up the frame in triumph, and knocked it against a lamp. Walker took it from him and placed it on the coffee table.
“That was a long time ago.”A long time ago.Not just measured in years, but in life stages.
“You still got it.” He took a sip of water, and Walker dipped the glass back.
“Finish that one up, then you’ll have another.”
“I’m not that drunk. Am I?”
“Whatever will keep you from throwing up on my area rug.” He filled Cameron’s glass to the brim with water. His guest sipped at the edges.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just now realizing that drinking thirty-five dollars worth of alcohol in a half-hour was not my smartest move.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
Cameron glanced over Walker’s shoulder, to his bedroom. Home of the world’s most comfortable bed, according to Cameron.
“Can I lay down on it for one minute? Just until I’m sober enough to go home.”
“You’ll be sober in one minute?” Walker knew this was a losing battle. He stepped aside.
Cameron waltzed past him and belly flopped onto the bed. The comforter whooshed out around him.
“And don’t worry. This isn’t a cheap ploy for sex. I’m really here for the bed.”
Walker hung by the door. “That’s quite the confidence booster.”
Cameron made a snow angel with his blanket. Walker almost forgot that Cameron seemed on the verge of tears mere minutes ago. Almost.
“Why didn’t you try to pursue it?” Cameron asked.
“Being a political cartoonist? It’s extremely competitive. You can probably count the number of people who make a living off it on one hand.”
“That means it’s possible.”
“Not anymore. My time has passed.” Walker shrugged his shoulders. He’d told himself that so many times that he never flinched at its ugly truth anymore.
“Why don’t you get comfortable?” Cameron gestured to the empty half of the bed.
